


On Shifting Sands

by LadyFangs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 34,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: The last part comes out far gentler than the first and she lays a hand on his face. She is not angry, but she is sad—not for herself, but for him. Because at the moment the great King Ragnar, is anything but.“I did not tell you because I did not want you to know. The seer told me I would never have another child. This baby will die.”The seer. Ragnar’s jaw clenches.He knows when she conceived. He remembers it vividly. The only time in seven years she had allowed him entry. The night before he became a king. The night when they were still equals, still earls. The night he managed to talk both Lagertha and Aslaug into his bed.





	1. Chapter 1

The crashing and breaking sounds coming from the back rooms are a warning that none should enter. And so the court remains in the great hall, waiting for their Earl to emerge. There are no sounds from her—but all can tell Earl Ingstad is angry. And when the Earl is angry, she is very, very dangerous.

Eventually the sounds quiet, and she emerges, dressed not in a gown, but in warriors clothes. Lagertha is calm and collected. “Kalf, come,” she commands striding out the door. Their warriors are to depart today.

“Yes, my Lord?”  He bends to help her onto her horse.

“Watch out for my earldom,” she says before riding off, Hedeby’s best fighters behind her.

.

.

It has been a long winter. A cold winter. His home is frigid, but not for lack of warmth—for a lack of affection. Intimacy. They have struggled since the beginning. But all frustrations and resentments are now exposed. He can no longer hide his unhappiness. Ivar’s birth has exposed the deep divisions between them. When his wife asks whether he loves her, Ragnar does not respond and the silence is answer enough. It has been a long time coming.

Relief and escape lie to the west. And he can see the blue flags of Hedeby in the distance.

“Just come back for the children.” Aslaug says tersely before walking away from him.

There is something in the air today. It is just a feeling, but he knows it well. Something is about to change.

 

**Month 5-May**

The clothing of a farming woman has allowed Lagertha to maintain her disguise. And the king is so taken with her, he does not notice anything else. She is grateful that what evidence is there remains small.  It has always been this way. Their raiding party decides to split up, and it is a blessing, one she does not protest. She will enjoy herself on this trip. She will bask in the attentions of a king. She will enjoy Ecbert’s pleasures and his affections.

It has been a long time since she has been able to do so. And why not? She is an unmarried, free woman, and she is also an earl.

The king provides escape from the problems at home—a reprieve from the very big problem that is yet to come in the form of another king, the one who is her ex-husband.

 

**Month 6- June**

There have been many loses. Friends. Family. The weight of their deaths weighs on his mind, presses into his bones. Kattegat is not a welcome sight, for he knows what he has to look forward to, there. He knows who will greet him upon his return.

“If it were not for my children I would not come back,” Ragnar says as they draw closer.

 “At least you have children,” Athelstan tells him.

Upon setting foot on the docks he knows at once something is amiss. It is the way Aslaug looks at him—or doesn’t. It is in the way Rollo calls for Siggy and there is no response. It is in the way the rain pours, as if trying to wash away evidence. And when he asks his wife about his sons she is silent.

The signs are clear. Aslaug reveals herself on her knees before him and he knows what has happened. He knows what she is trying to hide. It is an act of desperation, not desire. She wants to try and pass another man’s child off as his. If she is with child it would give him a way out of this, a way to be rid of her.

 “How was Harbard?” It is sneering.

Their relationship was never built on love. Circumstance brought them together. Loyalty to her for his children. Loyalty to him for protection. But she has endangered their kids, and it is an offense he cannot accept, nor stand.

When news comes of the destruction of his settlement it breaks what is left of his fragile emotional control and he chokes the life out of the messenger with his bare hands. A part of him dies as well.

.

.

It is growing increasingly hard to keep her secret hidden. The messenger arrives to tell her that her earldom has been usurped, and Lagertha is incensed. When he tells her who it was…she is enraged. Ragnar follows her out of the hall and into his private chambers.

“I helped you in Wessex. Now it is time for you to return the favor.”

“You came voluntarily. I do not want a war. Why does it matter to you so much?”

“Because it is rightfully, _mine_.”

It is an unexpected fight, one she had not seen coming. But he does not fool her. She recognizes exactly what he is doing and she will not let him. She knows Ragnar well. Lagertha holds her ground, holding eye contact, her intention absolute. He WILL do this. It is the _least_ he can do given everything she has done for him. He owes her this. 

They glower at each other, and Ragnar admits only to himself, that he is rather enjoying this view. His ex-wife has always been ravishing in her anger, and she is simmering with it at this moment.  It is the longest opportunity he has had to just stand back and admire her in a long time, and as he does he notices there is something…different.  Lagertha is dressed in her armor. And his eyes begin to wander slowly down her body…until the come to rest on a single spot. He focuses in…attempting to make sense of what he thinks he’s seeing…

She draws a breath, knowing exactly what he is staring at. She does not flinch when his eyes meet hers again. Instead, she meets his icy gaze with a steely one of her own, and brushes past him and out of the hall.

But it is too late.

He has seen it. And he knows...

Lagertha is pregnant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He MUST know. It is burning inside him, he HAS to know. He makes the journey up the mountain, to the house she was born in, the place their son now lives.

The door is unlocked, and he storms in, slamming it behind him. Lagertha turns to face him.

“Whose is it?!”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me!” He is yelling now, wide-eyed and furious.

She just laughs at him. But it is not happy laughter. It is dark and resentful. She hates Ragnar fully in this moment.

“I will give you three guesses. But I think you already know the answer,” she says moving to take off her armor, loosening the stays that bind the leather that’s constraining her growing belly.

“How long have you known?”

 “Since before we left for Wessex.”

“And yet you still came. You KNOW how I feel about these matters!”

He has railed against Bjorn for allowing Porunn to fight while pregnant chastising his son when she was injured. Now it is Ragnar who stands in a similar place and yet he cannot control his own wife.

Ex-wife, rather. “And yes, I do know. Yet, since I am not your wife and you are not my husband, you have no say in what I do or where I choose to go. You lost those privileges years ago.”

Seven years ago, to be exact. Seven years since their last attempt failed. The words are like daggers to his heart, and he withers under the accusation, but he will not allow her to best him.

“How much longer?”

“Three more months, perhaps. IF it is to even happen. I doubt it. Do not get too excited.” It comes out cold. Bitter. “Now. Are you coming with me to Hedeby?”

Ragnar feels a rush of anger and bites his lip, feeling the urge to hit something. He turns and punches the wall repeatedly, until the pain momentarily overrides his fury. When he turns to her again, his face is a mask of calm he does not feel. She will not be allowed to get away with this.

“If you wish.”

He turns to leave. Lagertha finishes undressing and climbs into bed to sleep.

.

.

He is trying hard not to laugh at Lagertha.  

She’s pissed, and it is directed at him. But it is a lesson to her. One FOR her. He has allowed Lagertha clearance to do as she chooses, but she has forgotten her place, and it is high time to remind her of it. HE is king. And she rules over nothing, now. She would not come back willingly when he offered her the opportunity, and so he has trapped her here, in Kattegat.

 There are matters more urgent than an insecure usurper trying to make a name for himself.

No, he will _not_ help Lagertha get her earldom back. It is not worth the expenditure of resources. And as long as Kalf is indentured to him, it does not matter _who_ governs the territory. It is still firmly within Ragnar’s control. And now, Lagertha is too. She has no choice but to remain in Kattegat, where she should have been in the first place. And since she is carrying his child, she will be close to him. Whether she likes it or not, he has won this battle. It is the mark of a patient man.   

Ragnar follows her up the mountain and into her home. She has not spoken a word on the journey back.

“Get out.”

“NO.”

He begins to take off his cloak. And his boots. All the while advancing until he has her backed against the wall and she cannot move. She has always been incredibly sexy when she is at her angriest—and he can tell she is nearly there now.

Lagertha’s chest is heaving, and his eyes follow the crests of her breasts under the fabric, the curves of her hips. Red is his favorite color. Ragnar moves his head down to kiss her. She bites.

He hisses and draws back a bit—only enough to slam both hands on the wall on either side of her head. It is menacing. He is trying to use his body, his size to intimidate her. But it does not work. She sees through it. Through him.

“ _Release_ me.”

“ _Not_ until you agree to speak to me.”

“Fine.”

He lets her go and she moves to sit on the bed. He goes to a chair. The silence hangs between them a long while until he cannot stand it, and gets up to begin pacing the room.

“Does Bjorn know?”

“No.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Only you.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“No.”

He stops pacing to come to stand in front of her, looking down. Lagertha looks up at him, her pretty face hard and defiant as ever.

“Why not?”

“What for?”

“Because it is MINE!” He yells at her.

“As Hedeby was mine.” It is her turn to laugh at him.

“That is not the same!”

“Again, Ragnar…who are you to talk?” She stands now, confronting him. “YOU are not my husband and YOU have no say over my body. It is no longer yours. You gave that up when Aslaug walked through the door. You blamed me for losing our son and it is likely I will lose this child as well. So whatever you think you are trying to do—it will not work. Ragnar ‘Lothbrok’ Sigurdsson will not succeed.”

The last part comes out far gentler than the first and she lays a hand on his face. She is not angry, but she is sad—not for herself, but for him. Because at the moment the great King Ragnar, is anything but.

“I did not tell you because I did not want you to know. The seer told me I would never have another child. This baby will die.”

The seer.

Ragnar’s jaw clenches.

He knows when she conceived. He remembers it vividly. The only time in seven years she had allowed him entry into her body. The night before he became a king. The night when they were still equals, still earls. The night he managed to talk both Lagertha and Aslaug into his bed.

“If I had known…”

“Known what, Ragnar? That I couldn’t conceive?  Then you could have left me sooner.  I did not go to the seer until _after_ I discovered I was pregnant. He has foretold this death. And I have accepted it. Now, you should too. It is only a few more months. And then it will be over. Until then…”

He finishes the thought for her.  “You will wait for our baby to die.”

“Yes.”

He can only stare at his ex-wife. There is no emotion in her voice as she speaks these words.  Does she grieve? Has she even cried? Does she not feel anything for the child inside her? He wonders at this. He wonders how he has missed all of the changes in her. Lagertha is no longer warm. She is just as cold and hard as the hall he inhabits.

“How can you not care?”

She draws a quick breath and turns away toward the hearth in the middle of the room.

“It does not matter what I feel.”

Strong arms come to wrap around her and rest on her belly. “I wish to touch it.”

“There is no point, Ragnar. I have told you already. Do not get excited. You have five, healthy sons. Be grateful for them.”

But even as she says it—even as she warns Ragnar against getting his hopes up, his hands have already started to caress her stomach. Children are his weakness, they have always been. He loves them, no matter the circumstances of their birth. Lagertha knows from experience exactly how this will end. He will become attached and he will be every bit as devastated as he was from the first miscarriage. It will lead him to become angry, and resentful. He will lash out -- blame her for it just as he did before--and they will fight all over again. At this point in the last pregnancy she had given birth to a stillborn.

Inside her, the baby kicks. Hard. So hard it makes her wince. Ragnar feels it on his hand and he comes around her to kneel down, resting his hands and his head on her belly. She looks away and sighs, resigned to the inevitable.

“Hello little one,” he whispers against the fabric of her dress before kissing her belly gently.

“Stop it.” She knows what he is doing. Ragnar is manipulative, and he’s trying to force her to remember things she’d rather forget.

 “No, I will _not_ ‘stop it’. I do not believe the seer, and neither should you.” It is spoken forcefully and he stands, looks at her hard and turns to leave. She watches as the door closes behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Athelstan is in his home when there is a knock at the door. He opens it to see Ragnar, looking anxious and fidgeting.

“I need to speak with you, my friend,” the king says, walking in without invitation.

“For you to come at such a late hour, it must be urgent,” Athelstan says, settling back on his bed as Ragnar goes to warm his hands by the fire.

“Lagertha is with child.”

It takes a moment for Athelstan to process what Ragnar has just told him. He blinks and opens his mouth to speak several times. No words come out. A deep breath, an exhale. He tries again.

“How?”

At this, Ragnar laughs, a loud, hearty laugh while slapping the priest on the back. “I’d think by now you would certainly know how it’s done, my friend.”

“I should have said, who? As in, who is the father? And when? When did this happen?”

At this, Ragnar falls silent a moment before speaking, slowly.

“It is mine. And…it happened when Horik was here.”

Oh…the night he slept with both Aslaug and Lagertha. Athelstan remembers that. Ragnar had been so happy—moreso with the fact Lagertha had allowed him in. The priest weighs the next question carefully.

“What will you do about it?”

“I do not know what to do.” It comes out resigned.

“Will you tell Aslaug?”

Aslaug.

Ragnar turns, his eyes a stormy blue and boring into Athelstan’s brown ones. When he speaks, it is low and filled with disdain. “I do not care what she thinks, or says. She nearly let my sons die. She has no say in what I do. Or whom I choose to do it with.”

“Yet Aslaug is still your wife. And Lagertha is not. What does she say?” At her name, the storm clears, and Ragnar’s eyes reflect sorrow instead of rage.

“She does not think the baby will live. She believes…” Ragnar closes his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “She says the seer told her she would never have another child.”

Athelstan shakes his head. “And what do _you_ believe?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

He is stunned into silence. He has never heard his friend sound so demoralized. Ragnar drops to the ground, his legs crossed. Athelstan takes a seat next to him.

“There has been so much since we got back,” Ragnar says. “I find myself trapped in a marriage with a woman I cannot stand. The woman I gave up is carrying my child and I am wondering if all that I have done has been a mistake—I am wondering…” he pauses a moment, struggling with whether to reveal such thoughts. Athelstan remains silent.

“I am wondering if I made the wrong choice. If I had known this was possible…” he continues the thought Lagertha had interrupted earlier… “If I had known, maybe we could have tried again, and maybe…maybe I would be happy. Maybe Lagertha would not have left me. Maybe we could have had more children.”  

Ragnar stares into the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes. Athelstan looks at him.

He has always known the divorce between Ragnar and Lagertha weighed on his friend’s conscience. Though Ragnar has never spoken of it, Athelstan has seen it in the way he grows quiet on certain days—the day of Gyda’s death. The day Lagertha left him. Those are the only times Ragnar allows himself any sort of sentiment. The years have brought him more sons and a new wife, but still…during only these times…the lingering grief and sadness manifest in silence and ale and mead.

Lagertha’s return had made Ragnar hope again—and for a while it seemed the two had reached…a compromise. An alliance.  But in Wessex, Athelstan had watched it crumble. And it appeared, at least to him, that while Lagertha had clearly moved on, Ragnar had not.  

It was in the way he sought her out at the feast in England. It was the way he hovered around her, the way his eyes settled on the necklace, and Athelstan saw, even from across the room…the burning in his friend’s eyes. There was jealousy—bare and plain and open.  And there has been nothing but animosity between them since the return to Kattegat’s shores.  Ragnar has done nothing but deliberately snub her and attempting to demean her. He disagrees with his friend’s refusal to help Lagertha regain her territories. It was and is spiteful and it is wrong—especially after all she has done for him. Ragnar would not be King now had it not been for her. Nor would have remained earl. Without Lagertha’s intercession…all of the young children and Aslaug would likely be dead from Jarl Borg.

“You do not deserve Lagertha…nor do you deserve this child.”

Ragnar’s eyes cut to him. “ _What_ did you say?”

The words leave Athelstan's mouth before he realizes it.But now that the thought is out there… “I do not pretend to understand the workings of your gods…but I feel they are being unnecessarily cruel to Lagertha. Why would they give her a child, only to take it away? And why would they give her yours, when you have done nothing but try to break her at every turn? What have you done to deserve such a blessing from your ex-wife?”

At that, Ragnar looks away from Athelstan, toward the door.

What has he done, indeed.

There is shame now. A deep seated shame stirring within him and he turns to stare into the fire again.

 “Do you even want this child?” Athelstan asks quietly, trying to assess where Ragnar’s head is at. “Or is this just an avenue to try and force her to come back you?”

When the king finally look at him, the priest is shocked by what he sees. It’s an expression Ragnar has only had once before—the day Lagertha and Bjorn left. The anguish is written plainly across his face and his eyes are bright with what seem to be tears.

“I want this baby more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. More than I wanted my sons. And I know it is what Lagertha wants more than anything in the word...to have a healthy baby. I cannot fail her again. And I cannot allow her to fail herself. We must try. _I_ must try."

Because this is the thing that broke them. And Ragnar hopes it will be what brings them together again.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Month 7- July**

Bjorn is the first outside of Athelstan to discover his mother’s secret. It happens one day as he walks into the house and she has not yet finished dressing.

“Bjorn!” Lagertha quickly pulls the gown down across her stomach but it is too late—he has seen it.

“When did THAT happen?” He asks pointing and crossing his arms.

She sighs. “Seven months ago.”

“And were you going to _say_ anything? Everyone has been wondering why you have not been at court,” the eyes of Ragnar stare at her.

“I had not planned to make any formal announcement, no. It is…not a pleasant occasion.”

Bjorn shakes his head before coming over to hug his mother. She embraces him as he looks down on her.

“I do not understand. A child is always a happy occasion. Porunn is with child!” A big smile spreads across his face and when she hugs him again, it is with happiness. Her pregnancy may not be celebrated, but the prospect of a new generation is one that must be heralded with joy.

“I am pleased for you my son,” she says with a mother’s smile.

“Who is the father of my brother or sister?” Bjorn asks, his voice filled with curiosity. At this, Lagertha takes a seat in a chair.

“As I told your father, do not get excited. I do not believe this child will live, and I do not wish for either of you to become attached.”

“Wait—are you saying it is…Ragnar’s?” Now Bjorn’s eyes are wide as he looks at her. She nods in confirmation and gives it a voice as well.

“Yes.”

He is stunned, trying to figure out the when and how of it all. Scratch that. He knows how…but when? Bjorn shakes his head as he leaves.

.

.

“Father, is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Ragnar is chopping wood in the stables as Bjorn walks in. “What is it?” He says barely acknowledging his son’s presence as he puts another piece of wood on the stump. He swings. It splits. Repeat.

“Lagertha is with child.”

“I know.”

“She says it is yours.”

“It is.”

“She says the baby will die.”

“That is what she believes.”

Ragnar’s complete lack of anything at the moment temporarily stumps his eldest son. Bjorn watches as his father continues chopping wood, remaining silent the entire time. He finally speaks again.

“Do you not care for Lagertha? Are you not concerned about your baby’s life?”

At this, there is something. Ragnar lays down his axe, and turns to his son slowly. Bjorn backs up, seeing the expression in his father’s face. It is dark, his jaw is twitching with barely contained anger.  There had been a reason Ragnar been chopping wood…

“Do. Not. Question. Me. Do you understand?”

Bjorn nods, realizing he has hit upon a very dangerous topic. Ragnar squints at him a moment, then goes back to gather another piece of wood. He places it on the stump and picks up his axe and swings. A split. Repeat.

Bjorn weighs whether to tell them the other part of it…

“You will also be a grandfather, soon.” He says quietly. At this, an angry growl followed by a shout. The axe wizzes through the air and impales itself violently in the side wall of the barn. Ragnar’s breathing is shallow…heavy as he looks at nothing in front of him.

Bjorn backs up and disappears, leaving Ragnar to his brooding.

.

.

**Month 8 August**

The trips up the mountain are becoming routine. Since his ex-wife will not come down he must go up. The door opens when he pushes it, and the smell of fresh bread greets his nose. It makes his mouth water. Lagertha is pulling the loaf out of the hearth as he enters.

“That smells…very good,” he says walking in and closing the door behind him.

 “That is kind of you to say. I did not believe it would work, it has been so long since I had need to cook for myself,” she says, appraising the golden bun cooling on the table.

“Why are you here, Ragnar?”

“I have been told we are to be…grandparents?” He says raising an eyebrow at her. She smiles and lets out a low chuckle. “You have spoken to Bjorn, then. He is very excited.”

“As he should be. The birth of a new generation is always welcome. New life is always special.”

He sees a shadow come across her features, and he knows instantly, it may have been the wrong thing to say. He walks toward her, resting a hand on her stomach.

“It is nearly time. Do you think…if it were to happen…it would have happened by now?” He asks quietly. She looks at his face, and sees something in it she can’t quite place. They have passed the point of when the last loss occurred. There are less than five weeks left. And Lagertha is heavily pregnant now. She has slowed down, waddling when she walks. There is no more disguising this pregnancy which is why she has withdrawn from court, and from the town. It is why she has isolated herself.  

The seclusion has provided more time than necessary to dwell on the question Ragnar is asking. It is the same one she too has posed. Nights have been spent in prayer to Odin, Frigg and Freya for some sort of guidance. But there have been no answers. She has continued to get bigger and bigger, the baby more and more active. The pregnancy itself has not been difficult. There has been no sickness. And there has been no pain aside from the usual ones that come with trying to adapt to the physical changes. There has been much to do here, to support herself. And leading the life of a single woman has kept her busy.

Tonight, though, she is truly exhausted. And her mind is weary. She is too tired to fight with Ragnar.

Sensing the change in Lagertha, he moves to help her down to the table bench.

“I do not know what to think anymore,” she says honestly. “I am…worried.” She has tried to keep a handle on her emotions, and she has done well so far. But it is the truth. The idea of losing a child at the end has started to weigh heavily on her heart. She had warned her ex-husband not to get attached, and she has fought that as well. But there is the ongoing struggle to reconcile the seer’s words with what is happening inside her body, and it is hard to remain detached when she can feel her child moving and growing and kicking inside.

“I have found myself hoping,” she says with resignation, laying her head on his shoulder. “But what does it matter, anyway? What will be, will be.”  

“Do you want this child?” Ragnar is sitting next to her, his hands holding one of hers. She looks at him. Her ex-husband’s beard is starting to turn gray, and there are fine lines around his eyes. But those eyes remain as sharp and perceptive as ever. Still, he is not the same person she married all those years ago. He has cut his braid off, the hair she lovingly washed and twisted and tied at night. The hair she loved to play in, and pulled during lovemaking. And there are far more tattoos that adorn his head, now. They are bright, and bold, and colorful…but she has never quite decided how she feels about them. The one she made for him is now encased in all the others. The only things that remain the same are his eyes, and in them she can almost see _her_ Ragnar. But her Ragnar died seven years ago when she miscarried their son.

He had told her then how that loss had broken his heart. And out of spite, he had turned and broken hers.

Neither of them have been repaired.

Lagertha shakes her head sadly. “It does not matter what I want. It does not matter what we want. What was it you once told me? It is _fate_.” The words cut at him.

“Perhaps we can beat the fates,” he says softly running his free hand through her hair. She buries her face in his chest as he strokes her head gently.

“I can only trust that whatever the gods have intended will be.”

They sit in silence. The bread has cooled enough for him to reach over and break off a piece. It is still warm and he puts it into his mouth, savoring it, remembering happier times when Lagertha was his wife and cooked for their little family, filling their stomachs and nourishing their hearts.  Even in Wessex, the armor he had worn into battle had been crafted by her hands. She was…no, she _is_ a sheildmaiden—the finest one in their lands, and the shields and armor she has crafted have adorned warriors in the hundreds. There are none better at her craft, and her craft is war.  

But his armor was special. She had stitched it lovingly, all those years ago. And he has worn it during every skirmish, every battle, every war.

Lagertha had been so upset when she’d seen it ripped when he returned to King Ecbert’s estate. “You are injured,” she had said looking upon him.

It is those little things, these tiny things that to him, matter most. Small moments in the larger threads of life.  She owes him nothing. And yet without her help he would have lost Kattegat and likely his family at the hands of Jarl Borg. Athelstan had told him that much, but in truth, Ragnar already knew it.  Without her as an ally, their excursions to Wessex may have been doomed. Without her, he may not have been able to become King. Yes, she has come to his side voluntarily. But Lagertha did not have to do anything for him or with him.

“Lagertha…”

Her breathing is deep. She’s fallen asleep on him. Carefully, Ragnar shifts position to angle her in a different way, allowing him to slide his arms down her back and her legs and lift her. He stands and carries his sleeping ex-wife to the bed and comes to lay beside her.

They are very close to the end, whatever end it may be.

He was not present for her miscarriage. Athelstan and Siggy were left to clean up the carnage. But this time, whether it be life or death that comes from this, he will be there for her.

In her sleep, she backs up into the curve of his body, and he drapes an arm around her, resting his hand on her belly. The furs are brought up around them, and he kisses the back of her neck.

Here, he knows, is where he has always belonged. And he wishes fervently that he could stay here, forever.

.

.

“You are leaving.” Aslaug just looks at him as he walks past her, packing a bag. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“You are _lying_. I know your lying.”

He scoffs. “Yes, because you _see_ things. I’ve heard it all before.”

The impact of her open palm across the side of his face doesn’t even hurt when she slaps him.  Nor does the expression in her face. Green eyes narrowed into slits, like a snake.

“Maybe _Harbard_ will come back here. Let _him_ fix your…urges, hm?” His smile is laced with venom as he walks past his angry wife.

“You are a bastard!” She yells at his retreating back. “I KNOW the truth, Ragnar. And I _know_ what the result will be.”

He stops, mid-step.

“What have you seen?” It is terse. Aslaug smiles and strides up to him.

“I have seen death,” she says, laughing in his face.

He resists the urge to backhand her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Month 9-September**

Three weeks left. Every movement is a strain and very uncomfortable. But it has been calming to have Ragnar by her side. He came to the house two weeks prior and has stayed. It is both familiar, and strange to have him here. Familiar, because they have done this before. Strange, because it feels like that was another lifetime.

 He is rubbing her feet as she sits, propped up in bed.

“Have you considered names?”

She shakes her head.

Ragnar continues working her feet. “I think we should have a name—either way. This child is special to me. He should have a name.”

It is a sweet sentiment, one that is so rare from him these days. But Lagertha also knows it is dangerous that his mind has been going down this path.

 “I told you _not_ to get attached.” She moves her feet out of his hands, tucking them under her. “Stop. Let us speak of other things. Tell me how preparations are going for Paris.”

Paris. In the Spring they will go west again to a new land.

He scoots up the bed and lays beside her, staring up at her with gleaming eyes. She smiles as he begins to speak with animation. _This_ is her Ragnar. The promise of new adventures has always brought out the child in him—his great joy. And it is there now. He gestures with his hands, painting a picture for her about what the city looks like. Some of what he says is new information—Ecbert had told her parts. But Ragnar brings it to life.

“I cannot wait to see this place,” she says with a yawn, feeling the lateness of the hour.

He goes quiet as she lays down and turns away from him, on her side. Sleep quickly takes her, leaving Ragnar to his own thoughts. This child, Paris…their future…Never has it all been so ambiguous. Only in a few, rare occasions has uncertainty ever been present. But this is one of those times. He feels as if he is standing on shifting sands.

The events of the past few months--Lagertha’s pregnancy, Aslaug’s infidelity, the near-deaths of his children--have nearly broken his already fragile faith. At one time he had believed the gods guided his destiny and that he was favored, walking and acting in confidence that the will of the gods was being obeyed. Now…it is all feels so precarious. He is a man torn between two families, two causes, and two faiths, questioning everything. His past decisions and his future ones.

Was it choice? Or is it fate? 

Lagertha moans quietly in her sleep and he can tell she is uncomfortable. He places a hand on her stomach, and feeling the movements, knows why.

“Shhh little one,” he moves down her body to speak to her belly. “It’s almost time. I know you can make it my son. Go to sleep, for your mother.” He rubs her stomach until he feels the baby calm. It is the only touch Lagertha has allowed from him since telling him of the pregnancy. It is a gentle touch. An intimate touch. A loving touch.

He loves this baby, as he loves the woman who carries him.

Ragnar takes the time to admire his ex-wife’s face. Her lips are still so full and pouty, her cheeks perfect, her brows soft. Lagertha’s face is in the shape of a heart.

He has now created children with two different women, separate and apart from one another in every way. Even in the way they carry.  For Aslaug, there has only ever been belly, she has never gained weight anywhere else. But for Lagertha…he has always reveled in her pregnancies. His ex-wife grows fuller everywhere, particularly her hips and thighs. And when he closes his eyes he remembers the way it was with her—so full and beautiful and radiant. She was always so demanding of him and he was always happy to give her what she wanted.  And with a twinge he realizes that she has not requested his… _assistance_ …not even once. He has lost that privilege. Forfeited it.

Lagertha remains as flawlessly beautiful as the day he first saw her on the battlefield, the glow of being with child making her even more alluring.

He cannot fault King Ecbert for desiring her. Many men have and continue to do so. He fought his own brother to make her his wife. And even Kalf, for all his ambition and his scheming, is very much in love with Lagertha. That, Ragnar had seen with his own eyes.

None of them are alone in this. Ragnar is too. He has never stopped loving his ex-wife. Or desiring her, or wanting her. He had begged not leave, but she did so, anyway. The divorce was never his choice. It was hers.

When she arrived to reinforce him, he had begged her to stay, yet again. And yet again, she refused.

The seer had tried to tell him. But Ragnar was selfish, and he could not understand what the old man was getting at.

He had wanted both women, but the seer had warned him he could not have it and had also told him there was a choice to made, and, how to make it. Perhaps, had listened and not been blinded by his own desires-- he would be married to the woman he loves, and not the one he hates.

 Maybe this child will finally bring them back together.

“I wonder how many offers of marriage you’ve turned down,” he whispers, caressing her face with the back of his hand. Bjorn had made casual mention of this some time ago.

“I wonder…if I were to ask you to marry me…again…if you would say yes?”

 Lagertha utters a tiny snort and shifts slightly. Ragnar chuckles low. “I will take that as a ‘no’ then.”

 He contemplates his next words as he traces her eyes, cheeks, lips and nose with his fingers.  “I regret…what happened between us,” the familiar lump again. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I wish I had never left our farm.”

It is the closest to an apology as he can allow himself to give. And it only comes when she cannot hear it.


	6. Chapter 6

When her water burst with Bjorn, Ragnar had been inside her in the midst of his climax. It had shocked and scared them both. There was fluid and they were so young—they did not know what to do. It was just the two of them yet somehow, they had fumbled through and emerged with a healthy baby boy.

When her water burst with Gyda, it had happened in much the same way. But they had only just been getting started. The labor had been quick, and this time, Ragnar was prepared. There was a midwife who worked on their farm, and they called on her and she came to help Lagertha deliver a healthy baby girl.

This time though, her water has not broken.

“Will you let me?”

“No.”

She is pacing the length of the house, back and forth, up and down. It is all she can do. It is what they all do when the babies do not come. The contractions have started. But her water has not broken. Ragnar watches. Lagertha is remaining calm, but his own anxiety is rapidly increasing. He has always been active in their births, and he is completely useless now.

“I will go get a midwife,” he says, and she nods…breathing through yet another contraction. When he comes back with the woman behind him, Lagertha is gripping the headboard, hunched over.

“Lay down,” the midwife commands.

It is Ragnar’s turn to pace as he watches the old woman peer under Lagertha’s gown, feeling inside for what, he doesn’t know.

“Has your water ever broken naturally?” She asks. Lagertha shakes her head. “No. It is always happened when I’ve been…engaged.”

“Perhaps tomorrow then,” the midwife tells her. It is now what she wants to hear and the groan is one of frustration. “Tomorrow?!”

The old woman smiles. “Well…it might be today… if…” she casts a sly look at Ragnar and then back at Lagertha. “Your water has to break. And the sooner it happens, the sooner the baby will come,” she turns to leave but Ragnar catches her arm.

“Could you stay?” He asks.

The old woman looks at him and nods. “Do you have a place for me?”

“I can take you to the stable, if that will do. There is a spare room there.” She nods. “Thank you, my king.”

King.

A reminder. He has not felt very much like a king lately.

 When he returns, Lagertha is on her hands and knees on the floor, moaning.

“I HATE you!” She hisses through gritted teeth, this contraction more powerful than the last. He puts his arms under her and guides her back to the bed. “You heard what the midwife said,” he tells her gently. “Let me help you.”

She shakes her head.

“No! You’ve ‘helped’ enough already.”

He sighs. It is all he can do to make her comfortable. And so, he gets into the bed behind her and moves her into his lap. His hands go around her waist onto her belly and he starts to massage her gently, lulling Lagertha into sleep.

There is a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he calls.

The midwife walks in with fresh water, and fresh clothes. “You will need these,” she says, laying them on the table beside the bed. He reaches for a cloth and dips it in, wiping Lagertha’s face with it. She moans and the midwife laughs quietly.

“What is so funny?”

“I remember when your mother delivered you, Ragnar Sigurdsson. You were equally as stubborn as this little one. If I remember correctly you were quite comfortable where you were and had no intention of coming out.”

He looks at her. “You knew my parents?”

“I delivered both you and your brother. And just so you know…your father had to force both of you out.”

“She will not allow me to do that.”  It is a strange conversation to have with a person he does not know. It would be equally as strange to have it with a person he does.

The midwife arches an eyebrow at him and leaves, closing the door behind her. Lagertha moans in his arms and shifts, her discomfort ever present and growing. Her anger he can tolerate. But seeing her in either tears or physical pain has always hurt him as it does now.

Resigned, Ragnar shifts a bit to pull his tunic off, making sure he doesn’t wake her. It is far more tricky to take off his pants but, he manages. Slowly he comes from around her, and positions her on her side slipping into the bed again and coming up behind her back. A leg is lifted, and he positions himself to enter her, drawing a sharp breath at just the touch of it.

 _Not for pleasure, for necessity_ , he tells himself, trying to stay focused on what must be done. The first push goes nowhere.  Lagertha stirs and he puts an arm around her to keep her in place, his hand only reaching to her belly button and no further. He can feel the movements inside, and tries again to enter her. This time the head slips in and he bites his lip to keep from groaning aloud at the heat of it. He begins to thrust gently into her.

Lagertha moans and stirs again, but he keeps going, trying to keep his own excitement under control.

_Necessity. Necessity._

She begins to grow wetter with each movement, and her reactions are involuntary as she draws him in. He feels her clenching and this time, he cannot help it, he groans into her ear as he pushes into her deeply and holds himself there, momentarily overcome by his own pleasure. Her eyes open.

“Ragnar! What are you—“But the words are lost when she feels something wet begin to trickle down her legs, and she knows it did not come from him.  

The first contraction soon after is ten times worse than any other and it causes her to scream. The baby is coming. Ragnar scrambles up and jumps into his pants. He is at the door and when he opens it, the midwife is already there, having heard the cry.

“Quickly now. Get behind her. She will need you.”

He does as the midwife says, and climbs back in the bed, behind Lagertha allowing her to rest against his chest. She is breathing hard, her legs open. Another scream as another contraction worse than the last hits and she wraps her hands around his, squeezing hard.

The midwife is between her legs, inspecting. “You are dilated. This is good…one more and it should be time to push.”

The next contraction hits and Lagertha’s yell makes his ears ring. It is a near certainty she may have also broken his hand.

“Alright now…one…two…”

A contraction. A scream. “Push!”

She pushes.

They repeat, with Ragnar offering her encouragement, the pain in his hands quickly disappearing as he watches his ex-wife struggle.

“Push!”

He feels as if he’s pushing with her.

“Push!”

She’s crying, heavy tears flowing down her face and he feels like the worst person in the word…

“Push! I see the head!”

The head…it’s coming…

“Push, we are almost there!”

She screams again.

“One more…”

This time, he holds her as she pushes with everything, and her scream rips through the tiny house, through him, through everything. It is more a howl that a scream….and then silence.

Silence, save for Lagertha’s ragged breathing.

There has never been silence before.  

He has never heard silence before.

Ragnar wraps his arms around her as she lays her head back against his chest in exhaustion.

Silence.

“I told you…” she whispers, turning her face into his chest. He strokes her hair and feels the first tear roll down his face.

Silence. There is too much of it…

 His punishment. He rocks her gently. He cannot open his eyes, cannot bear to face Lagertha or the midwife.  

Silence. And it is all around them.

Until it is not.

A loud smack.

A cough.

And a tiny, weak wail.

He looks up to see the midwife, cradling a bundle of white cloth in her arms.

The cries grow, and Lagertha looks up at well, her eyes red-rimmed, her face filled with disbelief.

“What?”

She reaches out, her hands and arms trembling…afraid…unsure…

The old woman places the bundle in her arms.

“It is a girl, my king.”

They both look down at the little crying baby in Lagertha’s arms. She lets out a chocked sob. And another, and another, until she’s crying and laughing at the same time. It is a hard cry, a cathartic one. Ragnar cradles them both in his arms, resting his head on her shoulder, allowing his own tears to flow.

Joy.

A daughter, not a son.

A girl. His only one, now.

He feels the weight of his decisions on his shoulders. The extent of his failure looms in front of him. He knows he is unworthy of this. He also knows this child is not for him. It is for Lagertha.

“What is her name, my love?”

Lagertha touches the small face, fingers the tiny nose.

“Ragnhild.” She says.

 _Ragnhild…_ He mulls it, a soft smile on his face _._

“For me?” He whispers, in awe of his beloved ex-wife.

She nods, a smile on her face as she moves the baby to her breast, and she latches on. 

He touches the tiny forehead, marveling at the miracle before him and understanding for the first time, the word Athelstan taught him.

Their daughter is greater than any earthly treasure he possess.  The gods took away Gyda, but they have returned this one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This involved some surface-level research into Viking divorce customs, plus some creative liberties. Since Vikings didn't leave written records though...well...who knows?

Three days have passed and Lagertha is up and walking around, their daughter nursing at her breast. From the moment Ragnhild opened her eyes, Ragnar has been captivated and deeply attached. His daughter’s eyes are a sharp piercing blue, and very much his own. Right now, though, they are closed and she is bundled against her mother, suckling contentedly.

“She looks like Gyda, my love.” He hears her sharp intake of breath.

Gyda. The daughter they lost in the plague. The daughter he sacrificed for sons.

“You are leaving soon?” Lagertha asks, her face smiling down into Ragnhild’s. It is a strange place he finds himself in--his ex-wife, now mother to his youngest and eldest children. These past weeks have been almost blissful. And these past few days, nearly perfect. He feels as if this is his home, and he does not want to leave. But he has been gone too long already.

“Bjorn will want to see his sister,” he says. “And I must tell Aslaug. There is already much…speculation.”

It is an understatement. He has been down the mountain only a handful of times these past few weeks, but Lagertha’s extended absence from court, coupled by his, has fueled rampant discussion among their people. It is a matter that must be confronted sooner than later. They must come to a decision, soon.

.

.

“You are back,” Aslaug says, moving to reach for Ivar, who has started crying. It is striking the differences between his new daughter and his crippled son.

“Father! Father!” Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd wrap themselves around his legs. He bends to hug them, holding them tight a long moment.

“May I speak with your mother?” He asks, looking between the boys. They nod solemnly and move away.

“Let me have him.” Aslaug looks at him and holds Ivar tight against her. He rolls his eyes. “I am his father and he is my son. I have a right to hold him!” He ends up taking Ivar from Aslaug and the boy begins to scream. Ragnar gives him back and Aslaug quickly snatches the child from his grasp.

“He knows you do not love him,” she snaps, moving to settle on the bed.

“I DO love him!” They’ve fought this battle before. It is pointless.

“I have come to tell you that your vision was wrong.” Aslaug looks at him and scoffs. “Then let me be first to congratulate you on making your ex-wife your whore and the mother of your bastard child.”

It sets his blood on fire. And his response is aimed at gutting her. “Funny, is it not the same way YOU came to be here?”

.

.

Bjorn is overjoyed as he holds his sister in his arms.

“How is Porunn?” Lagertha asks.

“She is still very upset. But Siggy grows stronger every day,” he says, touching the soft downy hairs on the baby’s head.

“What will you do, mother?”

 “I will go on living as we all must do. I will not question what the gods may have in store for me.”

“Do you think it includes father?”

Lagertha shrugs. “If it does, then it is well. If it does not, it is also well.”

Bjorn sighs in slight frustration. His parents have waged a silent war with each other now for the past year. Since Ragnar had all but disappeared in the last few weeks he’d thought maybe this baby had brought about a truce. But judging from Lagertha’s countenance, it seems that is not the case.

“Will you still come to Paris?” He asks. They are planning to depart in the Spring. Six moons away.

A soft smile plays on Lagertha’s lips. “You know my intentions my son. What was it you once told me? Our fates are bound together.”

He hands Ragnhild over to Lagertha and hugs his mother. “Will we see you at court, soon?” She mulls it over, looking down at her baby.

“Perhaps. When I feel it is time.”

.

.

Athelstan’s death changes everything. Ragnar is left to bury his friend alone on a hill, overlooking a waterfall.

“I regret you did not get the chance to meet my daughter,” he tells his friend. “And I regret that I could not save you…that I was not there. I regret that I cannot go where you are going. But I am grateful for your friendship…and for your love.”

His grief is his alone. And it is here, a great king mourns a Christian monk.

“What am I to do now, Athelstan?” He whispers to the trees. “I need you…I am lost with no guide.”

.

.

It comes to him in a dream, a vision so strong it feels almost real. His family. Bjorn and Gyda as children. Athelstan as he was when they first met. And Lagertha, so young… Athelstan’s eyes bore into his, and when he wakes, he knows what must be done.

“Marry me.”

He has brought their rings. The simple gold bands they wore for more than 15 years of marriage. He does not wear one now. And he never gave one to Aslaug.

“You’ve kept those for all this time?” There is surprise in her voice.

“They belong to us. They were never meant for anyone else.”

Ragnar extends his arms and Lagertha places Ragnhild in them. It is so different, here. While Aslaug refuses him Ivar, Lagertha freely gives him Ragnhild. She trusts him, she knows him, knows their daughter is safe with her father.

The baby stirs against his chest, but she does not wake.  Her tiny body is so light and soft, and she fills him with warmth and an overwhelming sense of peace. His heart, so heavy, is lifted just by her presence and she smells of mother’s milk. She is precious, this baby daughter of his.

The rings he has brought are each carved with a symbol—one representing Lagertha. One representing him. They could never be worn by other people and they’ve never been.

 “If I were to marry you again, I would become second to Aslaug.” Lagertha takes a seat on a chair in the corner of the room.

“I have consulted with the elders. They say that as first wife, you would resume your rightful position. And it is further solidified through Bjorn.”

“And what of my earldom?” She asks. “I still want it back. And I _will_ have it, by any means necessary. By joining with you, it becomes yours. Not mine.”

He just looks at her. “Is that all you care about? Your earldom? What about our family? What about our daughter?”

“It is FOR our family that I raise these considerations,” she says calmly. “It is YOU who are thinking emotionally.”

“So what would you have me do?” Ragnhild stirs in his arms and he shushes her quietly. She yawns but does not wake.

Lagertha studies Ragnar a long while before answering.

“I will come to court tomorrow. You will know of my decision then.”

He knows immediately what she saying.

“You will announce it publically, then.” It is flat. He really wishes she would stop doing such things. But Lagertha is set in her ways, and there is no changing them. The last time she had made a public pronouncement, it had been to reject his private request that she stay. Now, he has declared his intention to her, again in private. And she will answer them later in public.

Ragnar cannot win with this woman.

His trip down the hill goes slowly. And when he arrives back at his hall, it is dark, the streets empty. He looks up at the large, wooden walls, feeling a sense of foreboding. He has stood in this same spot, doing this same thing before. And last time, it did not turn out well.

.

.

The hall is crowded with music, drinking and laughter. Yet when the doors open and Lagertha walks in, Ragnhild wrapped and coddled in her arms, it gets quiet. Ragnar and Aslaug are seated on their thrones and he rises to step down as she enters.

“Can we go somewhere…more private?” He asks taking her gently by the arm and whispering into her ear.

“No. What I will say must be said publically.” Her answer is loud enough so most can overhear. Ragnar steps back, and sighs. It is happening again.

Floki and Helga exchange glances. They have heard the talk, and the baby in Lagertha’s arms appears to be confirmation of the rumors. Aslaug’s eyes bore into Lagertha with unvarnished hate, her sons gathered at her feet.

The music stops. As does the chatter.

 “I know there has been talk, and speculation,” Lagertha says loudly, turning to face the crowd. “And I am here to settle it.”

Whispers carry across the space.

“I have given birth to a daughter. And as an unmarried, free woman it is my right to claim paternity.” The hall is now completely silent. Ears are straining, hanging on each word. A rush of excitement builds along with the suspense.  They all know of who she is speaking…and they are all waiting to hear it confirmed.

Ragnar is standing still, his hands behind his back, face set as Lagertha speaks. She is following the letter of the law exactly. And he is prepared to answer for it.

She turns to face him directly.

“Ragnar Lothbrok Sigurdsson, I present to you, your daughter, Ragnhild.”

It is so quiet the cry of the seagulls miles away seep inside the chamber.

He steps forward and takes the child into his arms. It is a public acknowledgement of responsibility, that he is indeed the father of this child. It is a claim. That he will raise her and keep her, and that she will bear his name and his legacy. This is no bastard child. It is loved.

 The village elder steps forward.

“Ragnar Lothbrok, you claim this infant as your own?”

“I do.”

“Are you prepared to either marry this woman or pay her?”

“I wish to marry her.”

The crowd gasps, and the whispers begin immediately. He can feel Aslaug’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

“SILENCE!” the elder calls. It gets quiet again as he turns to Lagertha.

“You are the former earl of Hedeby. Ex-wife to King Ragnar, mother of his eldest son. How do you respond?”

“I _reject_ his proposal of marriage.” Her voice is strong and firm. Resolute. She does not break.

At this, cries of “no” can be heard. Ragnar and Lagertha look at each other. His daughter is still in his arms beginning to stir. “Shhh…” he whispers in the little one’s ear, clutching her to his chest and rocking her slowly, his eyes never leaving Lagertha’s.

“Then it is done. King Ragnar, the former earl of Hedeby has stated her rejection. You are ordered to provide two-thirds support for the care of this child. It is the law.”

He slams his cane on the floor, signaling the finality of the hearing. In the audience, Bjorn smiles, knowing what his mother has done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter xx**

“Leave us!” Ragnar yells, his deep voice making those gathered in the hall jump. “Now!” The king is angry, and his people file out quickly until there is only family remaining.

“Is this your revenge?” He steps to Lagertha, beyond furious with her. If it were not for Ragnhild in his arms, he does not know what he would do to his ex-wife.

“You humiliate me!”

“ _Unlike_ what you did to me,” her eyes snap to Aslaug and back— “I attempted nor _did_ any such thing. I _saved_ your reputation as a man and as a king.”

She reaches for Ragnhild but Ragnar pulls his daughter close to his chest out of spite. “Where will you go? I OWN you.”

Ah. _There_ is the present Ragnar—the arrogant, spiteful Ragnar.  Her sweet and loving Ragnar has disappeared again. Still, she holds her ground, the words having no effect.

“You _own_ nothing,” she retorts. “Shall I call the elder back? I believe there is a dowry that is also mine to reclaim…or have you forgotten _that_ as well?” Her dowry. Under their law upon their divorce she was entitled to her dowry and half their marital assets. It would have amounted to half of his territory as earl. But she has never claimed it. Those assets have only grown since then, since he became King.

 They stare at each other a long while and grudgingly, he gives the baby back to Lagertha and turns to Aslaug and Bjorn.

“Leave.” It is not a point for negotiation. Aslaug rises and storms out of the hall outside. His sons follow their mother, curious though, about what has just occurred and this strange new child their father has been holding.  Bjorn escorts Porunn out of the front door.

“Why did you do that?” Ragnar asks wearily, sitting down on a bench. Lagertha comes to sit beside him with their baby.

“Because if I marry you, Hedeby becomes communal property—to be shared by all _three_ spouses,” she says watching as understanding begins to dawn in Ragnar’s face. He nods slowly.

“And in rejecting me, you ensure our property remains ours alone in the case of my death.” He says, and she confirms it. “And this way it also ensures that _my_ lands will be inherited by Bjorn and Ragnhild.”

“But not my other sons,” he says, the hurt apparent.

“ _Bjorn_ is your first-born.” She does not directly answer his question.

“So is that why you never claimed your dowry?” Ragnar examines his wife carefully. Lagertha’s mind has never ceased to fill him with wonder. She has always been sly, calculating, thoughtful and …perceptive.

“I value my legacy Ragnar, as you value yours.  And I value our children, as well.”

“But not _all_ my children.” It is pointed. She shakes her head.

“I value _all_ your children. What is of you is…precious to me. But I cannot allow my feelings to determine how I deal with the situation I am now in. I will not allow anyone else to _steal_ anything more from me. _You_ , of all people, should understand this.” It is not explicitly stated, but the implication is there. She is talking about Aslaug. He rubs his head.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

“If I were to die in Paris…” he does not say it. But she knows what he means. “It is your choice to make, Ragnar. You refused to choose between Aslaug and myself. But now you must choose between your sons. Regardless of that choice, Bjorn and Ragnhild will be protected. I do not wish for war in their future. And there will be that—if there are two separate claims. In this way, Bjorn and Ragnhild will rule for themselves. I am sorry, but I _must_ protect what is _mine_.”

They fall silent a moment, having been speaking in low, hushed tones. Despite being the only two present, both know that the walls have ears.

“Will you permit my sons to meet their sister, at least? He looks at Ragnhild. She is awake and when he catches her eye she grins at him with no teeth. One large, calloused finger has five tiny ones wrapped around it, and he cannot help but to smile at her in return, before looking at her mother. Lagertha watches, a gentle curl on her lips. Ragnar’s eyes are clear now, bright and loving. This is her Ragnar speaking, and she would never deny him such a thing.

“Of course.”

He goes outside to search for his children, as she begins to nurse Ragnhild.

“My sweet daughter…you do not know how much joy you have brought to me,” she sighs, considering the next words to say. “And I believe you may have saved your father, as well.”

Ragnhild is finished by the time Ragnar comes back with his sons. Ubbe, the eldest of the young ones, approaches Lagertha warily. His brothers follow and she lowers her arms to show them their sister. Ragnhild has not yet gone to sleep and she eyes them all with a bright smile. They laugh.

“May I touch her?” It is Sigurd. Lagertha nods, as the boys wonder at the baby.

“What will we do with a girl, father? Hvitserk asks, looking up at Ragnar. He bends down to get on their level, holding Ivar in his arms.

“She is your sister, and you will love her, and protect her, as I love and protect you all. Do you understand?”

The boys nod.

.

.

It is the worst fight he has ever had with another person. And the other person is his wife.

“How dare you expose our children to that bastard and your whore!” Aslaug is pacing as he re-enters the room. The boys are still in the hall with Ragnhild, and he has left Ivar with Lagertha as well.

“Then let us stop pretending. Divorce me, if you wish. I will be glad for it. But the children will remain with me.”

Aslaug laughs. “You wish. I know you would love that but you will not get it.” She turns to face him.

“From the day I arrived you have done nothing but insult me. You have never loved me. You have never been faithful to me. You have openly lusted after Lagertha and you care nothing for our son! You tried to KILL Ivar! It is fine for you to fuck around, but yet you get angry at me for the same. You do not love me, Ragnar. You never have.” Aslaug is waiting on his answer, arms crossed.

“You knew I was married when you met me,” he tells her. “It was _you_ who chose to come here.”

“Yes, so that I could claim paternity. Did you honestly believe I would stay behind and give birth to a bastard with no father? I did not impregnate myself. YOU are to blame for Lagertha leaving you, not me. And I will no longer tolerate your disrespect. _I_ am a princess.”

“With no lands,” he says slowly, circling her, “which is why you came. And since we are finally being honest with one another, you are right. I do love Lagertha, and I have always loved her. It has not nor will it ever change. As of now you are free to do as you wish.  As long as you don’t _kill_ our children or threaten my rule, what you do with your time and your body is no longer my concern.”

.

.

It is time.

It has been six moons since the birth of their daughter, and they will today depart for Paris.

Ragnar kisses his sons goodbye and touches Ivar gently on the forehead. But he does not speak a word to Aslaug as he prepares to leave. Ragnar has not slept in the great hall for much of this time. He has spent his nights at the mountain house with his ex-wife and his newborn, relishing in the love and warmth that lives there. Bjorn and Porunn left them to the space, taking up residence at Ragnar’s lakeside cabin.

Lagertha stands near the docks waiting for him, their baby in her arms. He comes to her and embraces them both, brushing back the hair on Ragnhild’s forehead and kissing her. She coos at him and smiles, and he cannot help but to smile back at her.

“I can take her now, Lagertha,” Helga approaches them and reaches out her arms. Lagertha hands her Ragnhild and the two women share a hug.

“I know that she is in good hands.” Ragnar says. Helga smiles at him and there is a slight tinge of guilt for what he is about to do to her husband.

One arm snakes around Lagertha’s waist and he pulls her close to him, whispering into her ear as Helga walks away with their daughter. He does not trust Aslaug to watch over her. He would kill his wife should they return and Ragnhild not be there.   

“I will only say this once,” he tells Lagertha. “I love you. Do you understand?” She looks at him but says nothing yet allow shim to kiss her. And she kisses him, too.

Aslaug watches them from the shore, her face twisted in an ugly scowl.


	9. Chapter 9

Floki is placed in command of the battle. And Lagertha volunteers to lead the attack on the gates. Ragnar’s brow furrows as he walks slowly around the table, but he remains silent as his ex-wife and Kalf the usurper argue between themselves. He is not Lagertha’s husband. And she has made it abundantly clear he has no say in her personal matters. It is foolish for her to be here, for the both of them to be here, but he can only hope they do not allow this ongoing war between them to leave their newborn daughter an orphan.

The attack fails as he knew it would. The first strike was never designed to win. It was meant to humiliate Floki, to punish him, to make him question his faith, as Ragnar questions his. It was meant to disgrace Floki, to punish him in the only way he would understand—to make him feel as if his gods have abandoned him.

The fight is brutal and the Seine River runs red with the blood of his men. Through it all he hangs back from the battle, watching as bodies fall from the walls, and then he sees his son…

Bjorn is climbing the ladders, and Ragnar rushes to join him. Up they go, higher and higher, dodging arrows until the reach the top. Ragnar draws his sword as the Frankish guards rush them. Paris looms large and magnificent before his eyes, and it is everything Athelstan swore it would be. It is a momentary distraction, but it is enough as he is rushed, and pushed over the walls and down toward his death.

There is a crack as he lands on top of bodies. And he can only lie there as everything spins and the sound of agony reverberates through his ears. He turns his head, preparing to die when he sees Bjorn lying next to him. Two arrows in his back.

It is fear that propels his body to move and grab his son and pull them back behind the lines.

The gods have given him a daughter. He fears it will cost him his first-born.

Lagertha is panicked as she rushes into the tent, kneeling over her injured son. She does not leave until the healer has confirmed Bjorn will live, and even then, it is not until Kalf enters that she goes, leaving Ragnar with his son.

He watches his wife depart with the man who usurped her, and when the hour draws late, his curiosity gets the better of him and decides to see what is going on.

The sounds Lagertha makes stops him before he can enter her tent. And he approaches cautiously, pulling the curtain back just enough to be disgusted at what he sees.

Another man, between her legs.

She has betrayed him.

.

.

They have been on Frankish shores for three months now. Lagertha pulls back the curtain in Ragnar’s tent to see him shaking and shivering on the ground.

She enters and kneels beside him. He is covered in sweat and the stench of death fills her nostrils. She prays to the gods that her ex-husband will live. She cannot bear the thought that Ragnhild will never know her father.

“Are you satisfied, yet?” He speaks through clenched teeth. Lagertha backs up a bit, not answering.

“I saw you.” He says. “With Kalf. By any means necessary, right?” Ragnar starts laughing, but it turns into a cough which only intensifies until he is spitting up blood.

It is clear her affections and attentions are not wanted.

“You left me no choice. I am doing what I have to do. As did _you_ ,” she tells him. He knows exactly what she is alluding to. He and Aslaug. It is bitter. It cuts them both. But there will be no apologies between them.

Lagertha leaves Ragnar to his sickness. To his fate.

.

.

A casket. Then this is, indeed, the end. And it hurts. Their daughter is only eight months old. They have spent this past year torn between anger and love. Hurt and betrayal. There have been offenses on both sides intermixed with small moments of peace…even…happiness. But love has never carried them very far. Still it is with love that she now speaks. And she tells him what she knows he has wanted to hear for a very long time. She tells him that she loves him and that yes…she will marry him. And standing there alone by his coffin, she puts on her ring.

.

.

It is the dead, not the living that conquer Paris, and when he emerges as a ghost from his coffin, and stumbles back out of the gates, he sees his wife, and he reaches out for her, seeing the gold ring on her hand. She doesn’t smile as she walks past him, two axes twirling in her hands. They will revisit this.

.

.

“I am going to Hedeby with Kalf.” They are riding back to Kattegat, victorious in the sacking of Paris. Ragnar is still weak, but Lagertha is beside him, his head in her lap as their boat sails forward, rocking amid the waves. His hand comes to clasp hers, and on his finger now is a gold band. “I do not want you to go.”

“I know. But I must finish what I’ve started,” she tells him, stroking his head gently.

“What about Ragnhild?”

“I will take her with me, she is still young. And you are still very ill.” He nods silently.

“When will you be back?”

“When it is finished and I have reclaimed my earldom.”

He knows what that entails and closes his eyes, the image of Kalf inside Lagertha burned into his mind.

It was a mistake to not help her reclaim her earldom. This could have been avoided.

"I would rather have waged war for you," he tells her.

"But you didn't. By any means necessary," she says quietly, watching Kalf watching her from what were formerly her ships.

Her earldom.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter xx**

Aslaug is pleased to see him near death. She is disappointed when he recovers.

And upon his return to the present, it is Bjorn who tells him the news.

“I am sorry, father.”

“For what?” At first, he believes Bjorn is referring to Floki. But when he looks carefully into eyes that are so like his own…he knows it is not.

“Is it your mother?” He grabs Bjorn’s shoulders, the question riddled with fear?

“No! No…it is not mother…”

“Then…what? What is wrong?”

“It is Siggy.” The first tear falls. And then the second. Ragnar’s heart stands still.

“The baby? Where is she?”

“Dead. Drowned.”

Dead and drowned. His lone grandchild. The first of what he had hoped would be many. Lost. A child’s precious life, snuffed out.

His grief is almost that of his son’s, for Ragnar knows all too well what it is like to lose a child. And he also knows exactly who is to blame for it.

His body may still be broken, but his mind is sharp. And the sound of his heavy legs, and wooden staff dragging across the floor of his great hall echo like thunder. So does his voice.

“ASLAUG!”

She comes from the back rooms and he glares at her.

“What happened to the baby?!”

“The servants were supposed to be watching her.”

“I did not entrust her to the servants, I entrusted her to YOU.”

“SHE is not of my blood nor was she my responsibility. My responsibility is to the four children that are of OUR blood, and NO others. I am sorry for your loss,” she says with false sincerity and he feels the impulse, yet again…to slap her. His eyes narrow.

“You will not get away with this,” he says. “I NEVER forget.”

“Nor do I…HUSBAND.” 

Ragnar turns to leave, heading to the porch where he can watch Floki, and ponder this situation. He must rid himself of Aslaug. And he will find a way. But not at the expense of his sons.

.

.

The winter is bone cold. Floki suffers in chains in the square and Ragnar gets to stare at him every day. It is revenge for the murder of Athelstan. But it does not bring him any satisfaction. Aslaug, he knows, wants him dead. And grief, disappointment and disillusionment have forced Bjorn into the wilderness, Ragnar is still trying to cope with the knowledge Aslaug let his beloved granddaughter, Siggy, die. And Sigurd, his youngest son, has told him everything--about how Harbard returned in his absence, and how his wife took her lover to their bed.

Inside his mind more thoughts come without welcome--about Lagertha, and where she lies—WHO she is laying with. And why. It all makes him question, makes him seethe. His sons want to play, and he does try. They are young and innocent still. But his body hurts. Paris has ingrained itself in his bones; age and injury are starting to catch up to him. It all reminds him of his choice. A choice he now knows with certainty—was very, very wrong.

Had he waited just a little longer, he knows Lagertha would be mother to _all_ his children.

These are the things that follow him into the night. Aslaug lays beside Ragnar as Kalf lays beside Lagertha. It is a long winter.

.

.

**Part II**

The first cracks in the ice appear. And shortly behind them, Bjorn comes back.

“I have come from Hedeby, Ragnar.” There is no more father.

“And what of your mother?” He cannot disguise his anxiety, the hopefulness in his voice as he grips the side of the chair.

“Earl Ingstad will return to Kattegat soon.”

 “And what of Kalf?”

Bjorn looks at him and it is then Ragnar sees the woman at his side. Torvi, the widow of Jarl Borg.

“Kalf is dead.”

There are no more words. Now he waits.

The cracks in the ice grow. Weeks pass. He is alone in the great hall sitting pensively on his throne when the doors swing open. The light glints off her golden hair and she is carrying their daughter on her hip.

 He stands and goes to them as Lagertha puts the girl down and Ragnhild begins to toddle over to him her arms outstretched. He bends to pick up his daughter, burying his face in her body, enjoying her smell. She smells like fresh air, like a breeze. Lagertha saunters up to him and he uses his free arm to bring her in closer. She smells like his daughter, but underneath is a different sort of scent, one he knows well. She smells like a woman. Like desire.

“I have missed you.”

“And I, you.”

“I have made my choice,” he tells her.

“What is it?”

“The one I should have made the first time.”

They are married quietly. Bjorn and the village elders are the only witnesses. All are sworn to silence. It is carved in a rune and the rock buried in a place where only they know. He states his intent—the rights of succession-- clearly so there will be no mistakes. No misunderstandings. Bjorn and Torvi take Ragnhild for the evening, and Ragnar and Lagertha retreat up the mountain. Their son has vacated it for the moment, allowing his parents privacy.

 It has been a very long time. Since before Paris. Before he fell ill. Before she left to Hedeby to do what he wouldn’t—reclaim her earldom. Six months they have been apart. Nearly two years since the last time he made love to her.

This time there is no urgency, no pressing circumstance or life-changing event that looms over them. This time he can love her as his wife. His rightful wife, and she can love him as her husband.

“It has been too long,” he whispers into her hair. He is already inside her before laying her on the bed. She laughs. “Too long since the last time you had sex…or the last time you had sex with me?”

Lagertha knows him too well.

“Both,” he says with a roll of his hips. She moans and her eyes slide closed. “mmm…Ragnar…” it’s in the way she says his name…letting it roll of her tongue as if a purr. He has always enjoyed that, and he enjoys it now as he savors each sound, every sensation.

“Poor husband,” she says raising her hips up to meet his. “I am sure it has been torture for you.” He groans as she clenches around him—how had he forgotten that? She has always had excellent control over her womanhood, and she does things to him that no one else has ever done. Or likely can do.

“You have no idea…” He breaths.

She laughs into his ear and the laugh turns into a gasp as he starts to push deeper. A small squeak comes from her lips as he goes all the way in, giving her his full length, and holds himself there in the spot he knows to hit for maximum effect.

“Did Kalf…Did Ecbert…Sigvard?” He has wondered but never asked. He does not know what makes him do it now. But as her body begins to shake and her legs tremble around his, he gets his answer.

“Noooo….” It is low and breathy, and he can tell she isn’t lying. He can _feel_ that she is not lying. He draws out, and goes back in slowly, up to the hilt, until she yells again.

“You are evil,” she manages to rasp even as her body begins to lose control.

“I am. But you like it.”

And she does. It is something only Ragnar has ever been able to do. A place only he has ever been able to reach to bring her to the point where pleasure meets pain and to push at the boundary until it feels as if it’s about to break…

Lagertha moans and wraps her arms and legs around him, pulling him down and into her as she starts to shake and quiver even harder. He can feel her orgasm in his bones and is powerless to stop his own. They groan and breathe together, wrapped up in a pleasure wave that feels as if it goes on and on. He feels as if he is drowning inside her. And when he releases his seed he can feel her taking it in.

This must be what Athelstan described as heaven.

He does not realize he’s laying on his wife until her soft voice reaches his ear, stirring him from his daze.

“Did she…?”

“Never.”

This is why he had asked her, begged her that last time, to join him in his bed. It is why he had manipulated Aslaug into allowing it—because after four years of no word followed by Lagertha’s sudden reappearance in his life… he had started to realize that what he was craving was something only she could provide. He had been settling, and each encounter was progressively less satisfying than the last.

Even though it was the three of them that night, his attention had been largely consumed by Lagertha. It was the first time he had been fully sated in years. And it was not a physical satisfaction—but an emotional one.

“And what of your others…tell me, husband…how have you been filling your time?” It is said with a hint of laughter, and he debates on whether to tell her about Kwinthrith.

“You were right, about Wessex.”

Lagertha smiles and touches his face.  “I knew it! And yet _you_ had the nerve to be mad at _me_.”

He grins like a chastised child. “I was…”

“Jealous,” she finishes, her lips finding his. She traces the outline of his mouth with his tongue and he slips his in, allowing them to meet. “Rollo told me things. I am curious to know what you say.”

“She pissed on me.” He says drily. At this, Lagertha laughs aloud. “Well, that _is_ different, I suppose,” she says. “And we all know how… _curious_ you are about certain things.”

“I will stick to sucking on toes…and other places,” he says moving his legs to pinch her with his feet. She squeaks as tries to wriggle away but he grabs her and pulls her close to him.

“I have no desire to be with anyone else.” He inhales the scent of her hair.  The corners of Lagertha’s lips turn up as she reaches to stroke his beard.

“I know.”

They had been faithful to each other in their marriage, until Ragnar broke their vows. Despite joking about sleeping with other women, he never did—not unless Lagertha had agreed to it. And even in those few times, his focus had been on her pleasure…other participants were relegated to more passive roles between them. No other man had ever entered her. And he had never entered another woman, not in the way it mattered. Certain things were for themselves. And they were unashamedly and unapologetically selfish about it.

He cannot say the same for his marriage with Aslaug. There have been many, many women. Some servants, some free. He had tried to be discreet, but Aslaug knew. It had started almost immediately after Lagertha left and it had continued until she came back.  

“I am bringing Ubbe and Hvitserk with us to Paris.”

“But they are so young!”

“I know. But I do not trust Aslaug to care for them. She almost let them die last time while she was fucking some stranger. And she allowed him to come back.”

“Ragnar…” There is warning in his wife’s voice. “I do not approve of what she did…but you cannot continue to fault her for sleeping with someone else. You have done far worse. A woman can only take so much.”

“You would defend her, your usurper?”

“I am speaking as a woman of experience. I had the luxury of leaving. Aslaug cannot. You have trapped her here.  You are also a very hard man to love and an easy one to hate. And you should be very worried about a woman who hates you. I LEFT you because I didn’t want to become that woman.”

Their lips meet and he rolls her over on top of him.

“Enough about her. What of us?”

 Lagertha’s eyes burn with mischief as she moves away only to climb on top of him. Her hands go behind her and she leans back. He jumps at where her hands go. A wicked smile emerges as she lowers herself to his chest, her hair cascading across his face. His eyes follow that golden crown as she moves down his body, and he groans and fists the sheets when she finally arrives at her destination.

.

.

They had only meant to stay one night in the mountain house. They end up staying for three. And by the time they enter the great hall, there is another man sitting in Ragnar’s chair speaking with Aslaug. The two are embroiled in conversation, and Ragnar hangs back, arms crossed on his chest, watching with dark amusement. Lagertha is resting her chin on his shoulder. “What are you thinking, my king?”

“I am thinking there is someone very much interested in my chair, my queen.” After a while of watching, he takes Lagertha’s hand and they walk right up behind Ubbe. The boy turns to see Ragnar.

“Father!” Ubbe is now 12, the same age as Bjorn was when Ragnar first sailed west. At this, Aslaug turns to look at him. Her eyes dart from Ragnar to Lagertha to the man beside her. She opens her mouth to speak but Ragnar holds up his hand, silencing her.

“And you are?” He says, quickly sizing up this person.

“King Harald Finehair,” the man says standing and stepping down to face Ragnar.  “We have heard of your raids west. And I have come to join you on this one.”

King Harald Finehair…

“Never heard of you.” Ragnar is dismissive. His young sons gather around their father’s legs. Lagertha moves off to where Bjorn is standing nearby.

“How many boats?” Ragnar asks.

“More than 20.”

He thinks of it. “Then you are welcome to come…King Harald Finehair. But a word of advice…” he lets it linger before leaning in to speak directly to Harald. “I don’t like people sitting in my chair.”

.

.

“Did you have fun with Lagertha? Is it out of your system, now?” Aslaug says as she undresses in their chambers. The hall is dark, and the people are gone. His first wife has retreated to his cabin and he will join her and Ragnhild there soon. There are things he must discuss with Aslaug first.

“She is my wife.”

At this, Aslaug turns on him. “WHAT?!” Her green eyes flash. Her face is twisted into a scowl.

“You find this disagreeable…why?” He chuckles as he says it. “Were you not the one to suggest this arrangement before?”

She had, indeed, when she first showed up to Kattegat pregnant with Ubbe. He watches as his wife fumes.

“You are deliberately trying to punish me. You _hate_ me because you think I took her away from you. You’ve never liked it that I am here.”

“I know _exactly_ why you came here.” It comes out deep. Almost like a rumble. They have never spoken about this openly. Aslaug shakes her head.

“Only because you wanted me to. I was fated to come to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “We both know that is not true. Circumstance may have brought us together. But you made a choice. As did I. Tell me, again Aslaug—what am I to make of a princess with a title but no land?”

She falls silent.

“ _Exactly_. I gave you opportunity, and you took it. I do not fault you.”

“So you are leaving me, then.”

She is not even looking at him anymore, working instead on braiding her hair. He comes up close behind her and wraps his arms around her. She tenses.

“You know as well as I do that I cannot leave you, princess. But I will do as you want, and I will never touch you again.”

He releases her and walks out of the rooms and out of the door, heading to the cottage where his first wife and his daughter await.

“I HATE you, Ragnar Lothbrok!”

He doesn’t turn around, even as he feels something hard hit the back of his head. He touches the place, seeing blood. It did not hurt.

.

.

“What will you do about Rollo?”

Ragnhild is asleep in the bed nearby, and they have finally exhausted themselves from lovemaking.

“I will face my brother when the time comes.”

It is a bitter, terrible thought. One he has managed to distract himself from, until now. They will depart in a month to head back to Frankia. Back to where Ragnar knows with certainty, Rollo still is. And he is certain his brother has betrayed them all, yet again.

“My boats will arrive in two weeks,” the earl says, one shapely leg draped lazily across his, allowing him a view of the tattoo on her thigh. He traces it with his finger.

“I love that tattoo.”

“I know you do. You made it.”

They slip into comfortable silence, her fingers playing with the hair on his chest. “Your chest hair is turning gray too,” she says, her lips on his arm. “Will you still bring Ubbe and Hvitserk?”

“Yes.” He rolls over on top of her, planting kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, nose…neck...shoulders…breasts…

It is a clear end to the conversation when his head disappears below the furs and she stifles a moan as to not wake Ragnhild.


	11. Chapter 11

It is the first time he has ever been defeated. A defeat he does not know how to recover from. They have lost many boats. Many warriors. And as he looks around at his people, he sees the unrest beginning. There must be a plan, soon. Lagertha comes to him. “What will we do?”

She had nearly died in the land attack—and she too has lost vital resources.

Solution…solution…

“We will go further down river,” he tells his wife. “And we will regroup there.”

Floki sounds the horn and they raise sails.

It is the first time Lagertha has ever been seasick. She throws up on the side of the boat, into the river.

.

.

She hears Halfdan and Harold speaking behind her.

“I would not talk about Ragnar Lothbrok like that if I were you,” she snaps, not even turning to them as she says it.  After all, they are passengers on _her_ boats. Theirs lie at the bottom of the Seine. It is what they get for their arrogance, their foolishness. However, Lagertha is under no pretense that the two brothers belief in Ragnar is infallible. They have smelled blood, and they have seen a weakness.

“In our world, someone is always responsible for failure, Lagertha,” Harold says, coming to stand next to her. This time she turns her head to size him up and down, refusing to back down, or be intimidated. Her hand goes slowly to the hilt of her sword, and when she speaks again, it’s firm.

 “We have not failed, yet.”

Harold backs away, looking at his brother, and then at her.

“My apologies, Earl _Ingstad_ ,” he says with mock humility. “I did not think you cared that much about your… _ex_ -husband.”

They both know what this is.

.

.

The camp has been razed and they come ashore in panic. Ragnar searches frantically for his sons. “Ubbe! Hvitserk!”

Torvi emerges from the trees, the boys alongside her. He falls to his knees in relief, wrapping the boys in his arms.

They weren’t safe with their mother. But they are safe with him.

Lagertha comes stand behind him waiting. He rises and looks at his sons.

“You are loyal to your father, yes?” They nod solemnly.

“And I am loyal to Lagertha. Do you understand?” He peers at them intently. “Yes father,” Ubbe and Hvitserk reply in unison.

“Good.” He brings them to his chest, holding them tightly. “Remember this. Understand this. Swear to me.”

“We swear,” they say.

.

.

There are cliffs all around. And as he studies them, inspiration strikes. He moves to get Floki and tells him of his thoughts.

The boat builder nods. “Yes, it can be done.”

It is the answer he has been searching for.   “Sound the horn.”

It blows, and the boats gradually begin to slow as his people look around them, and then up at the cliffs, and over…to where the king stands on the embankment, staring up at the forest high above them. Lagertha looks up as well, her heart sinking. But she knows what must be done.

.

.

They stand at the top looking down, watching as the ships are hauled up, one-by-one. It is grueling, agonizing work. But it is going.

“Ragnar, I must speak with you,” she says taking his hand and guiding him to their tent. When they are settled he reaches for her and pulls her close, finding her lips with his, intent on gaining something more. It is the first moment alone between them since before the raid, and… Two small palms push against his chest, backing him up a bit. Her eyes stare up into his.

“I am with child.”

He studies her a moment. “Did you know before we left Kattegat?”

She shakes her head. “I realized it after the battle, when I was seasick.”

They have both spent the past three weeks hauling along with the rest of their people.

“Then I cannot allow you to do any more,” he says, brushing her hair out of her face. “As my wife, I forbid it.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to draw attention to us. My pregnancy makes me vulnerable, Ragnar. Halfdan and Harold…they want your throne. And they are…suspicious.”

It was in the way Harold said, “ _ex_ -wife.” They have been as discreet as possible, however most of their warriors know—not necessarily about their marriage—but about their baby. And it is not a stretch to think that word of their relationship to one another has reached the brothers.

“We do not need to give them any more reason to see a weakness,” Lagertha says. They compromise.

“If you grow tired, stop. If you feel anything wrong, stop. Do you understand?” Ragnar says it as an adult talks to a child. But she also knows he has good reason for feeling the way he does. She has never entered a battle pregnant. But she has also at times been reckless. They both think of Porunn, Bjorn’s first wife.

Father and son haul together as Lagertha oversees the line. It keeps her engaged and it also keeps her from having to haul as much or as long.

The days pass. Then weeks. And the first month. The second. The third.

All of his wife’s pregnancies have been late to show. But this one seems to be on a faster track. Either that, or she misjudged how far along she is. Her armor is becoming tight. Incredibly tight.

Ragnar comes into their tent, exhausted, coming to rest his head on her lap.

‘We are nearly there,” he says, eyes already closed.

“hmmmm…” is all she murmurs as she pets his bald head, fingering the intricate tattoos that now adorn him and go down his neck. She has not yet decided whether she likes them. She has associated them with the new Ragnar, the man not hers. Her Ragnar had long hair, the back and sides shaved. She misses his hair—the way she used to braid it lovingly. But this new Ragnar is now also her Ragnar and she loves him equally, if not differently.  

Their love has changed over the years. It has gone from a bright inextinguishable fire, down to a low, barely-there simmer. In the worst of times that love had felt more like hate---equally as passionate, but something far darker. Now though it is…tempered. The flame burns just has hot as the beginning, but they’ve learned how to control it better, to make sure their hearts don’t override their minds. Age and experience has trained them.

Ragnar has fallen asleep, and she lifts his head gently in order to lay down beside him.

.

.

“Ragnar! Lagertha!” Bjorn is calling them from the hillside. They go, followed by Floki, Halfdan and Harald. Spread before them is the Seine, and in the distance, Frankia.

They have finally made it to the other side.

Lagertha comes to stand beside her husband, not touching.  “Well done, Ragnar.” He nods and turns to walk back to the camp. She follows, leaving the rest of the men on the hill to marvel at the feat.

That night, they steal away to speak freely in the woods, their words hushed.

“I cannot pretend anymore. I must fight now,” she tells him, wrapping her arms around his body. Ragnar still feels so solid, so good. Comforting. He rests his chin on her head, holding her close.

“I know. I pray our child will be safe. I do not want to lose either of you. And I cannot bear to lose you both.”

 

.

.

They manage to battle Rollo’s forces to a draw. But in the fight, more warriors are lost, more boats sunk. Ragnar and Rollo beat each other bloody until they are forcefully pulled apart as the Frankish ships sound the retreat and begin to fall back. He rails at his brother, screaming bloody murder until he cannot anymore, and sinks down into the stern, exhausted. Only then does he see Bjorn cradling Lagertha on the floor of the boat.  He gets up quickly and in panic and scrambles over to them, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Give her to me!” Ragnar commands and Bjorn silently hands his mother over. There is blood on her chest and he rips her tunic and quickly undoes her armor to discern her injuries. A stab wound to her shoulder. But her belly is clear from what he can tell.

“Get me something to stop the bleeding! Anything!” Bjorn scrambles as Ragnar presses his hand against the wound. Aid comes from a nearby ship and his son returns with brown fabric. Ragnar leans over to wet the cloth in the river and quickly wraps it around the wound.

When they arrive back at camp the sheildmaiden’s take Lagertha out of his arms and rush her into a tent. He and Bjorn follow and they settle on the floor to wait as the women work.

It is hours before his wife wakes with a soft moan.

She opens her eyes to see Ragnar. “What happened? Did we…”

“The Frankish fleet withdrew,” he says. “But you—“

“It is just a flesh wound,” she winces as she says it.

“Leave us,” he commands. The shield-maidens turn to go but Ragnar stops Bjorn. “Not you. Stay. We must discuss what to do next.”

.

.

They retreat from Paris, having stung the wasp nest yet again. But they did not make it to the city. As they begin to sail away, they stop periodically along the river, ensuring their people can raid the villages and the towns. By the time they reach the mouth of the Seine, it is not a victory—however none of their people, including Harald and Halfdan, can tell the difference. And Ragnar, Lagertha and Bjorn are content to keep it that way.


	12. Chapter 12

She does not know whether it is the pain in her shoulder or the pain in her belly that is worse. But both are equally bad. They have been home a month, and she will spend the duration of her pregnancy in Kattegat. Ragnar has been busy attending to the town affairs left neglected by his departure. And she has spent her days with her daughter and largely alone. But it has not been unpleasant. Ragnhild is learning to speak and Lagertha is helping her form the words by pointing and identifying shapes and other things. Having her has been a blessing.

Ragnhild puts a tiny hand on her belly. “Bra-fur.”

“What did you say?”

“Bra-fur,” the little girl repeats.

Lagertha smiles. “If you say so.”

.

.

“When will Earl Ingstad be leaving?” Aslaug asks when Ragnar walks back into the great hall.

“After she has delivered.”

“Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd—take Ivar. Go outside. I need to speak to your _father._ Alone,” she tells their sons. They look at their parents and then between themselves and leave.

Aslaug crosses her arms.

“And what of our children? Have you thought of your sons? Or do you favor your _other_ family?”

“I love all my children equally.” He will not take her bait. He will give her no satisfaction.

“If you were to die tomorrow, Ragnar, I would be queen.”

“I know you wish for both. But you will be disappointed. The throne you sit on is merely borrowed, not earned.”

She laughs. “I think it is _you_ who will be disappointed. The seer has already told me. One day a woman will rule Kattegat.”

At that—he laughs. A deep, dark laugh that echoes through the hall. Ragnar laughs in Aslaug’s face.  “That is the most truthful thing you have said to date. I believe you.”

He starts to walk off, then pauses, and turns back around.

“On second thought, dear wife…perhaps Lagertha and I will go to Hedeby. And I will take our sons with me. Bjorn will govern in my stead until I come back. I think he would do a far better job than you have done.”

Ever since his return he has had to settle squabble after squabble—issues that should not have gone neglected in his absence.

“How can you be so cruel?” Aslaug asks softly. “All I have ever done is try with you.”

“If that is how you describe trying, wife, then I would have preferred you ignore me.”

.

.

It is the longest he has ever stayed in Hedeby. His sons seem to be enjoying themselves. The city is only slightly larger than Kattegat, and Ragnar remembers a time, in his youth, when his home was just a tiny fishing village and Hedeby the larger town. Both have grown significantly larger over the years.

Lagertha is greeted with cheers from her people and they come to hug her and celebrate their earl’s return. Here, he is not treated as a king but as a companion, and it is clear where the loyalty of Hedeby lies.

The boys are nearly bursting with excitement at all the new things around them. It is only the second time Ubbe and Hvitserk have been outside of Kattegat, and it is the first trip for Sigurd and Ivar.  Lagertha’s home is far grander than his, and his sons are infatuated with the beauty and the luxuries of her hall. It is larger than the one in Kattegat, and elaborate chandeliers made of deer antler and bone adorn the rafters. The light is soft and warm.

That evening there is a large feast, and music and dancing. A group of young boys approach the head table, where they are seated. The tallest one steps forward.

“I am Leif, King Ragnar. We were wondering…” he glances at his friends who stand back nervously. “We were wondering if your sons would like to play with us?”

“Can we, father?” Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd look at him and he nods.

“But only if Ivar is allowed to play as well,” Ragnar says, looking at his youngest, seated on his lap.

“Ivar, would you like to play?” Lagertha leans over to ask the boy. “NO!” He says angrily, turning from his father and crossing his arms.

Husband and wife look to each other, and then to Ragnar’s other sons. Their eyes are pleading, and he consents. The reward is three wide smiles as his boys scamper down from their chairs and under the table to go with Leif and his friends.

“Stay out of trouble!” Lagertha calls and the group all stops. They boys bow and Leif speaks. “We will, my lord!”

They are out the door and Ragnar and Lagertha can hear them running and screaming and laughing outside.

 “Bra-fur! Bra-fur!” Ragnhild squirms on Lagertha’s lap.

“Aw, you’re not old enough dear daughter. I know you want to play with your brothers.” She smiles at the little girl and Ragnar reaches over for her as Lagertha reaches for Ivar. They trade children.

“She’s stupid. She can’t even talk,” Ivar says sulkily. He is only five, but already Lagertha is concerned about the type of man he will become. She can see the anger in the young boy, but there is no doubt that he is very intelligent, like his father.

“She is not stupid, Ivar, she is young. She is still learning,” she tells him gently. He crosses his arms again and looks at her huffily.

“I want my mother. _And YOU_ are not my mother.”

“Ivar…” Ragnar says sternly, but Lagertha shushes him, her attention on the child.

“You are correct in that,” Lagertha tells the young boy. “And I would never try to replace her in your life. All mother’s love their sons and daughters.”

Ivar quiets, considering it.

“I am not your son. Does that mean you do not love me?”

 “You are Ragnar’s son, and I am his wife. I love you as well.” Ivar’s face lights up and he gives her a smile. She grins in return.

Raghnild places two small hands on either side of Ragnar’s face smushing his features together. He crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue to the tip of his nose, making a face. Ragnhild, Ivar and Lagertha laugh at it. The toddler squeals into her father’s ear in joy and claps her hands repeatedly on either side of Ragnar’s face.

It actually smarts a bit.

“You are so much like your mother,” he tells the little girl. “Abusive.”

“Fa-da!”

“What was that?” He looks at her.

“Fa-da!” she repeats, and he grins. “I am indeed your father.” And who is that?” He points at Lagertha. Ragnhild follows his finger and points as well, but at Lagertha’s belly.

“Bra-thur.”

This time, it’s very clear.

“Say again, little one?” Ragnar looks to where she’s pointing.

“Bra-thur.”

“Well, if that is what you want, then I suppose it is what you will have.”

.

.

It is the happiest he’s been in a very long time. He feels as if he has lost 20 years, as if he is the man he once was, when they were young and making their living on their farm by the beach. His sons have quickly made new friends. He dotes on his family-- Lagertha and Ragnhild, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar. But he notices the biggest change has come in his youngest son.

Lagertha dotes on him as well, but she does not coddle him, and Ivar is learning how to use his arms as a means to get around. They encourage him to play with his brothers, and they refuse to keep him isolated.

At first, Ivar had cried and thrown tantrums and fits, but he quickly realized they did not work here. Lagertha has commissioned a small cart for Ivar to play outside, and the carpenter devised a way for the boy to push himself, allowing him to keep up with the rest of the children.  Even Ivar has made friends, and as Ragnar holds Lagertha by the door and they watch the group of young boys play together, it raises his heart to see his youngest engaging and interacting with the rest of the kids.

“He is so different here,” Ragnar says, marveling. “I did not believe that he could do these things.”

These are his very private thoughts. Lagertha is quiet as her husband speaks.

“I had believed that he would not make it,” he says quietly, “and I was so angry with Aslaug for keeping him. I thought it would be merciful to allow him to die.  I have been angry with her because Ivar has suffered, so very much. He is not like the other children. But here he is almost normal. I have seen Ivar in tears. I have seen him angry and I have seen him in pain. This is the first time I have ever seen him… happy.”

He closes his eyes, pressing back the tears. She comes to his side, wrapping an arm around his, and Ragnar looks down at the top of her head, and rests a hand on Lagertha’s growing belly, under his palm, he feels his baby stir, and she looks up at him, and smiles.

“He is pleased, too,” husband.”

They know it is a boy. Ragnhild has said so.

Here, in Hedeby there are no pressures to rule. No responsibility to govern. Ragnar did not become earl and king to have to spend the days settling petty land and property disputes. He did it to make a better life for his people and his family through adventure and discovery. Lagertha, he notes, is a far better ruler than he has ever been. There are far fewer conflics here in Hedeby. And her people seem pleased with her rule.

He remarks on it later in the evening.

“It is because Kalf killed those who opposed me,” she tells him as they lay in her bed. “What you see are those most loyal to me. He did it for me.”

“He loved you greatly.”

“I know. And I loved him too…even when he usurped me.”

Ragnar rolls over to look at her. He has never heard this part of the story. He has never heard her confess to loving someone else.

“Did you love him…more than me?”

Her lashes flutter as if in slow motion as her eyes come to meet his, her fingers play with his beard as his hand caresses her belly.

“I do not know if I can love another man the way I love you. It was a different sort of love. It was…easy. Uncomplicated. He told me that he did it gain my…respect. That he felt he had to do something to show me he was equally capable of defending me as I could myself. He said he wanted to be the kind of man I could love. He said he wanted to be…like you. It was unfortunate.”

Ragnar pulls her close to his chest, her fingers tug at his beard, pulling him down into a kiss. “Somehow, Ragnar Lothbrok, you’ve managed to ruin every relationship I’ve ever had.”

He laughs quietly as they slip into nuzzling.

They are seven months into this is pregnancy, and as he makes love to her, he is stopped midway through, as he feels his baby kick while inside his wife. It makes them laugh. “I suppose if I were him, I would feel the same way,” Ragnar muses, kissing Lagertha’s face and moving slower. More gentle.

Afterward, they discuss the future.

“We should go back to Wessex as soon as we can, to check on the settlement,” Lagertha says. At this, his whole body stills. She peers up at him inspecting.

“What is wrong?”

He has not told her. He has not told anyone. The only person who knew is dead, killed by his own hands.

“Ragnar?”

“I am sorry, my love.”

“Sorry for what?”

“The settlement was destroyed as soon as we left.”

She just stares at him, trying to find words. It hurts. The settlement had been their dream. One they’d held close to their hearts throughout their marriage, and throughout their divorce. She had worked so hard. All those people, the families, the children...her heart burns, and there are tears behind her eyes. Lagertha buries her face in her husband’s chest until she can speak again.

 “When did you know?”

 “About two months after we returned.”

He gets up naked, beginning to pace the length of her rooms. The children are asleep in another chamber nearby and Ragnhild is in her bassinet by the bed, napping. It’s been nearly three years since they left the colony.

“We have to tell their families.”

“NO!” He collects himself. “No. If they were to know…it would destabilize everything. It is my mistake.”

“Yes. It is,” Lagertha is looking at her husband as if he were a stranger. “You’ve LIED to your people, Ragnar. Everything that you have built— _we_ have built—has been based on your word as a leader and on your actions as well. What if there are other survivors? What if other parties go there? What if they have already been?”

There is real worry in her voice now, and she twists the ring around her finger in contemplation. Had she known of this…it would have changed everything. It is no longer Ragnar’s reputation on the line, but hers as well. Her people have lost family too. They have lost friends as well.

“We will go back.” When she speaks again, it is with determination. “And we will tell the people why. And we will go and we will fight. Because we have no other choice. It MUST be done. We will strike a town in Wessex—a village for a village.”

“They will likely be heavily fortified by now.”

She nods. “But we have new and superior weapons from Paris. And my warriors know how to use them.”

Ragnar comes to sit next to his wife, placing a hand on her belly, it is round, and full. She will be due soon.  “After the child comes, he says. “And then I will go. You will be in no condition to travel.”

They agree.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It is time for the boys to return to Kattegat.

Lagertha is heavily pregnant, and she can barely move. Her discomfort grows daily and Ragnar wants to leave enough time so that he can return before the baby comes.

‘Must we, father?” Ubbe asks Ragnar as he helps load the wagon.

“Yes, you have to. Do you not miss your mother?” Ragnar looks at him as they go back to the hall to retrieve more trunks.

“I do not.” At this, he turns to really study Ubbe.

“Why not?” He is troubled at the response. Had he asked the same question to Bjorn at this age, he knows his eldest would have said yes.

“She does not love us. She stopped loving us when Harbard came.”

It breaks his heart.

“We do not want to go, father.” Sigurd says, staring up at Ragnar as he is picked up and loaded onto the wagon.  “Please do not make us leave.” He looks at his son, all red hair, like Aslaug and hugs him, rubbing his back.

“I am certain your mother has missed you,” he says. Sigurd looks at him and shakes his head, and Ragnar knows, in the look on the child’s face, that there is a deep resentment against Aslaug already. It had been Sigurd who told him first about the death of his granddaughter, and later, about the return of Harbard, and it provides a fresh flare of anger at Aslaug for neglecting him in favor of Ivar, and for allowing him to witness such things so young.

 The boys climb on top of the wagon, and Ragnar raises Ivar to sit between his brothers, before loading his new cart onto the back along with the rest of their things. When he is done, he goes to the door of the hall to kiss his wife, resting a hand on her belly, his forehead on hers.

“I will return.”

She raises her face to find his mouth. On her hip is Ragnhild.

“Fa-dur!”

He smiles, lifting the little girl into his arms.

“You want kisses too?” He laughs, placing several on her face. She grins and he hands her back to Lagertha and goes to the wagon and climbs aboard to return his sons to Kattegat.

.

.

Aslaug rushes to her boys as they walk through the door and she gets to her knees to hug them.

“Hello Mother.” Ubbe.

“Hello Mother.” Hvitserk.

“Hello Mother.” Sigurd whispers it, looking down, and Aslaug pauses a moment studying him. However her attention is diverted when Ivar comes into the hall. He is in a rolling chair and pushing himself. Her eyes go wide when she sees him and she smiles as he comes to hug her.

“Ivar!” They embrace and Ivar smiles at his mother, looking at her adoringly. For while Lagertha was kind, she is not Aslaug. And no woman will ever be equal to his mother in his young eyes.

Ragnar comes in soon after, standing at the entrance just watching. He has seen the short hugs Ubbe and Hvitserk gave her, and he notes the quietness of his sons. They truly had not wanted to come back, but he had not understood, nor had he seen the extent of their displeasure until now. And now that he is seeing it, it disturbs him greatly.

Either Aslaug does not notice the reticence of her children or she is so happy she does not care.

Aslaug stands, seeing Ragnar at the door.

“Father, can we go play now?” Sigurd turns to him and he nods. The boys run out the hall, Ivar with them. They take his chair and he moves himself down the stairs. Ragnar takes a note to build a ramp for Ivar upon his return from England.

“We must speak, Aslaug,” he says, walking into his hall and taking a seat in his chair. She comes to sit next to him.

“ _What_ have you done to my sons?” She asks sharply. There is hurt in her voice, her green eyes are bright with unshed tears.

“I have done nothing,” he says. “But they did not want to come home. I forced them to.” He weighs whether to tell her the rest of it. 

“You and Lagertha have turned my children against me! How _could_ you?” A single tear falls from her face. Ragnar shakes his head.

“I did no such thing. Lagertha did no such thing. It was she who commissioned Ivar’s chair. He was…happy. He played with the other children. In Hedeby he made…friends.”

“Then _why_ do they act as if they hate me?” Aslaug says, looking at him.

“I told you a long time ago, Aslaug, when Harbard first came--”

“NOT Harbard again!” She yells, standing from her chair to glare at him.

“SIT. DOWN.” His own voice echoes in the empty hall. Seeing the twitch of his jaw, Aslaug sits.

“YOU are their mother. And it is YOU who had a responsibility to protect them. I have told you it was NEVER about Harbard, it was always about your failure to keep them safe. Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd resent you for that. Sigurd was left to see his cousin dead in a creek! He saw you with Harbard, having sex, in MY bed. And Ubbe and Hvitserk _know_ where you were when they fell through the ice. You have coddled Ivar to the point he had begun to think himself a cripple. Aslaug…I did not turn our children against you, _you_ did. And now it is time for you to earn their trust back. They did not want to come home. I _forced_ them.”

There. It is the truth. If Aslaug wishes to be a mother, then she will have to start acting like it.

He gets up from his chair to begin unloading the wagon. It takes about an hour. As he goes, he sees his children playing outside. Bjorn comes walking up the street toward the hall. He grabs a trunk and takes it inside.

“How have things been in my absence?” Ragnar asks appraising his eldest. It seems as if Bjorn is now taller, more mature. He can see adulthood in his eyes.

“It is fine. I have managed to settle several land disputes. It is difficult, though. I did not realize how exhausting it was to rule,” Bjorn tells him. “So many people. So many problems, and they all come to you.”

Ragnar chuckles, grabbing another trunk and handing it to Bjorn before taking one for himself.

“Remember when you wanted power?” He tells his son. Bjorn shakes his head. “I do not want it now.” The two of them walk back outside to take the wagon and the horse to the stables.

“Consider this…training,” Ragnar says opening the barn door for Bjorn to walk the horse in. “You will be in training a little while longer.”

“How is mother?”

“Nearing the end. I will head back to Hedeby tomorrow. I will need to be present for the birth.” Bjorn grins at that.

“I think you are just excited to be back between Lagertha’s thighs,” he says. Ragnar looks at him archly.

“Your mother would club you if she heard that.” But the king is laughing and he gives his son a slap on the back. “It is the way her children come. At least she will not try to beat me for it this time.”

.

.

It has been several months since he has been in his own rooms, and they do not feel like his anymore. Aslaug is putting Ivar to sleep as Ragnar climbs into the bed, turning away from her. He is fully dressed as she comes to lay beside him.

“How long will you stay this time?”

“I will leave in the morning.”

She pauses, looking at him.

“Can you just admit that we have both made mistakes?” She says quietly.

He sighs, remembering what Lagertha told him about making women angry. Both of his wives are formidable, but in different ways. After a long while he sits up to look at Aslaug. Her long, red hair is braided down her back, and she is only in her slip. It reminds him of when she fell to her knees before him—an effort to lure him into sex in order to cover up the possibility she may have been pregnant by Harbard. It had not worked then. It does not work now.

“I do not want your sex,” he tells her directly. Sex was the only mutual thing between them. He had received four sons because of her sex. But sex was not and is not love. And though Aslaug is still beautiful—he would never deny her that—he has realized what he lost with Lagertha, and he values it far more.

“Then what _do_ you want? Because you continue to hurt me, to insult me. To punish me,” she says. They are speaking in low voices, so the children cannot hear.

“I want a truce,” Ragnar tells her. “I am tired of fighting you. I do not want to come back only to end up in another argument. It has gotten us nowhere.” In fact, it has only made them more resentful toward one another.

“I want a husband,” Aslaug says. “All I wanted from Harbard was someone to love me. YOU did not. You do not. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You were jealous of Lagertha. You forced her out. You knew she could not compromise, and you manipulated me.”

“You manipulated and fooled YOURSELF. And yes—I was jealous of Lagertha. But I admired her as well. She had something I never did--you. She saved you, and she saved me and she saved our children—how could I NOT respect her for it? I tried Ragnar. I _tried_ to make you happy. I tried to make you love me, but when she came back you ran right to her. You told me to my face that you wanted her back—that you would not tell her to leave if she didn’t want to--Me, your wife! You never cared about my feelings, you never cared about my heart.”

It is said with sadness and regret, and as he studies Aslaug he knows without a doubt how right she is.

He was never in love with her, and he had used her, as she had used him.

“But I never lied to you,” he says. “You knew who I was, what I was when you met me. That said, I know I have not been a good husband to you,” he says, placing a hand over hers. She looks down at their fingers.

“I am sorry for it. We tried to make the best out of an impossible situation. You are free to pursue your happiness. I was sincere when I said that before,” he tells her. “I want you to find it. I want you to be in love.”

“I _was_ in love…” she whispers, removing her hand and laying down in the bed, her back to him. He knows what she doesn’t say. That she was in love with him.

It is something he cannot return. It is not in him.

Her turned back makes clear the conversation is over.

Ragnar sighs and lays down again, closing his eyes to sleep.

.

.

The women of Hedeby whisper among themselves watching King Ragnar approach the doors of the main hall. Word of his return had reached them well before his horse was spotted on the hill. By the time he had entered Hedeby, most of the town is already outside to greet him, and the women chatter excitedly at the sight of the great king.

The doors to the hall open as Ragnar steps down from his horse, anchoring the animal at the post and taking the stairs two at a time to hurry inside. Lagertha stands there, her stomach round, in greeting and he bends down to kiss her, long and deep.

The ladies titter to themselves and slowly make their way home. The king is very attractive. And it is clear he is abundantly in love with their earl as well.

“How is our son?” He asks, settling down on a table bench. There is still only one chair in Hedeby, and it does not belong to him.

“He is difficult,” Lagertha says, resting her hand on her belly. “He hurts me.”

“Do not hurt your mother,” Ragnar says sweetly, resting his head on her stomach and as she stands in front of him. “You will be out soon.”

Hopefully very soon,” she sighs, and winces. Ragnar feels the kick on the side of his face and holds his jaw.

“Already with an attitude, you,” he chides his unborn son.

“How did the boys do when they got home?” Lagertha asks, settling next to her husband on the bench. Ragnar shakes his head.

“I did not realize how truly unhappy they were there,” he says remorsefully. “They were not pleased to return. Aslaug and I had a very long discussion.”

His wife’s hand rests on his, their rings overlapping.

About what, she does not need to ask. She knows.

 She knows that Aslaug must feel about her the same way she did when Aslaug first came to Kattegat pregnant. She does not dislike Ragnar’s wife—the blame for it lies squarely with her husband—but they have never had a close relationship. They have tolerated one another out of mutual respect and mutual love for their children and, to a certain extent, Ragnar as well.

But tolerate is a far cry from liking.

Each time she sees Aslaug’s face is like a study in humility. Each time she is in Kattegat and sees another woman in the home and the village that she and Ragnar were raised in and built for their people…it singes.  These past three years have eased it somewhat—yet even though they are married—no one knows. And they do not live as husband and wife. What they are to each other, is and remains a mystery to most. And to this day, another woman sits on her throne.  

And that woman allowed her granddaughter to die.

In truth, Lagertha had always wondered how Aslaug dealt with Ragnar’s blatant attempts to earn her back. She remembers the night he came to Rollo’s house and told her plainly that he did not care about his wife's feelings as he asked her to stay with him. It had shocked her then, the callousness of it. It had been so mean toward the princess that Lagertha knew she _couldn’t_ stay—even though she had been considering it just moments before.

She had worked, out of respect for Aslaug, to keep Ragnar at bay. She knew he wanted sex. He had made mention of it in England, and the way he hovered, it was all too apparent. But what startled her is the night Aslaug came to her on the beach, and gave Lagertha consent to lay with her ex-husband. It was the night before they killed King Horik. It was the night she fell pregnant with Ragnhild. The night she shared a bed with both Ragnar and Aslaug…but loved solely on and with him.  They were selfish that night, as they were in their marriage, leaving Aslaug largely alone—with only a stray touch here and there.

What must she have felt, watching them? At least Lagertha had never witnessed Ragnar with someone else. And he was always loyal to her, until the moment he wasn't. Lagertha remembers the way Aslaug looked at her the morning after…a look filled with burning hatred and hurt and…she realizes now, jealously. And she knew, in that moment, that it was a test—not for her, but for Ragnar. Aslaug was testing Ragnar’s loyalty and his love for her, and he had failed miserably.

That was nearly three years ago. Their lives have been forever transformed by that night. She empathizes with the princess's struggles. Lagertha had walked away. Aslaug had stayed and paid a terrible cost.  However, looking at her husband, she struggles to feel remorse.

It does not come. Because she is _not_ sorry. She had believed the fates made their destinies and that her time with Ragnar was done. And she had been secure in that, and had worked to ensure Bjorn would carry on her line. Her defense of Kattegat was not predicated on a desire for Ragnar, but on the fact she could not say no to her son. Lagertha believes in fate. And now she supposes, their reunion and their re-marriage must be fated as well.

She rests her head on his shoulder, their fingers entwined.

“Are you tired, my wife?” Ragnar turns his head to place a kiss on hers and she nods.

“Then allow me to take you to bed.” Ragnar gets up and lowers himself as she puts an arm around his neck and he places one of his at her back, the other under her legs. He picks her up and carries her into the bedroom.


	14. Chapter 14

It starts in the night—the cramps, the contractions.  They are strong enough to wake her from sleep.

“Ragnar.”

She pushes against his shoulder and he snorts, opening one eye to look at her. “What is it?”

“It’s time.”

The two words rouse him quickly and he gets up to go to Ragnhild, lifting her gently.

“Where do you want me to take her?” He asks. “Take her to Ammala,” Lagertha says. Ammala is her housekeeper. She sleeps in the servant’s quarters.

In Kattegat, servants and slaves sleep in the barn with the animals. In Hedeby the servants have their own space in a cottage in the back of the hall.

Ragnar enters with his daughter in his arms and the servants look at him wide-eyed. It is rare for a man of his status to be among them. An older woman walks up to him.

“I can take her, King Ragnar. And I will send for the midwife.” He nods and goes back to Lagertha and climbs back in the bed.

“Do you want me to break you water? He asks her.

“I am not sure. Can we wait for the midwife?” She asks. He nods.

They switch positions, him behind her, settled between his legs, his hands on her belly. She leans against his chest, trying to get comfortable.  

“Rest, my wife,” he whispers into her ear, massaging her stomach. “We will have a new baby soon. I will wake you when she comes.”

Lagertha leans back against his chest and closes her eyes as he rubs her gently. Her arms, her shoulders. Her belly. It is something he has done before. It is a comfort to them both.

Some time goes by and there is a soft knock followed by shuffling in the hall. The doors to the personal quarters open and a younger woman walks in, followed by Ammala.

“The midwife,” she says, leaving them in privacy.

“Hello King Ragnar,” the woman bows her head in greeting and he nods in acknowledgement, bending his head to whisper to Lagertha.

“My love, the midwife is here.” Lagertha moans and her eyes flutter open. She tries to sit up against him but winces.

“Do not move,” the midwife instructs, coming over to them. “In fact, I will need for you to scoot down a little and open your legs.”

Lagertha does as instructed, and Ragnar gets up to stretch his legs, as he waits. The midwife is feeling on his wife’s belly and peeking between her legs. She reaches up and inside and Lagertha draws back a bit.

“That hurts.”

The midwife frowns. “The baby is very low. I can feel him. Has your water not broken?”

It is the same question that is asked every time, and every time Lagertha shakes her head. “No. My water does not break without my husband’s assistance,” she says.

The midwife looks at her, and then to Ragnar.

“It feels like a larger child, this one,” she says. “You are ready for birthing. But you are not open enough. I would say another day at least.”

“Can I help her?” Ragnar asks, walking back toward the bed.

“You can only do so much, my king. But her water does need to break soon. After that, hopefully her body will take over. I will be nearby.”

She turns to leave and Lagertha looks at him worriedly.

 “He is large…” she whispers and there is fear there. “It will be fine. Do not worry,” Ragnar says stroking her forehead before leaning down to kiss her.

“Will you let me help you this time, or do I have to wait until you are asleep again?” He smiles and it earns him Lagertha’s laugh. She pats the bed next to her, and he gets up to remove his tunic and his pants.

“And this time you will not have to run shirtless through the streets,” she says as he gets into position to make love to her.  There are two parts of pregnancy that he enjoys the most—making the baby…and ejecting it as well. Both are wonderful experiences, and he does loves being able to contribute to both. It is something he has only done with Lagertha.

But this time, her water does not break immediately, and he frowns when he finishes, confused that it did not work.

“Should I try again?”

Lagertha grimaces under the force of another contraction, this one far stronger.

“I don’t think I can, husband. Just lay with me. Let’s see what happens.”

They wait, and now he is helpless again as Lagertha’s labor pains grow. It is a long and uncomfortable night but in the morning, her water finally breaks. And he knows when it happens, because it coincides with a contraction that makes her scream, startling him to the extent he ends up falling out the bed.

The call brings in the midwife.

“Quickly, help me now,” she commands Ragnar and he does exactly as she says, helping to move Lagertha into position. She is sitting up now, legs splayed.

“Get behind her—you will need to assist,” the woman commands and Ragnar moves into position behind his wife. The older woman is peeking between Lagertha’s legs, nodding to herself.

“It is time.”

“Praise the gods,” Lagertha is gritting her teeth, bracing herself against her husband as another contraction comes.

“Alright, prepared to push with me…”

Lagertha begins pushing, using her husband as her brace.

 “Again!”

She grunts and groans and squeezes, pushing until she falls back against Ragnar.

“Again!”

This time when Lagertha screams, it makes Ragnar’s ears ring. Her hands are gripping his so hard it hurts.

“You can do it…you can do it…” he whispers to her, trying to be reassuring.

“It is stuck,” the midwife says as soon as Lagertha stops pushing and both she and Ragnar look at the woman.

“What do you mean ‘stuck’?” Lagertha’s voice is hitched, her eyes wide. She is covered in sweat and it is the first time he has seen her look absolute terrified.

“I will have to cut you,” the woman says, and his wife begins to whimper and tremble.  Another contraction hits and his wife screams and tries to push.

The midwife goes back down to try and get the baby out.

They labor like this for hours, and Ragnar can tell Lagertha’s strength is beginning to leave her, and he is growing worried. The baby still has not come and each passing moment is agonizing. He is becoming afraid himself. What if the child does not make it? What if he loses his wife? They have come so far and he fears they will be rewarded with failure…no…he cannot go down that road. He Will Not go there. This child will come and it will be healthy, and his wife will come through as well. But even as he prays, and Lagertha struggles the doubt grows in his mind.

Another push and this time Lagertha’s cry is that of an injured animal, she screams until she passes out, and her body goes completely limp.

“She has torn,” the midwife says tersely. “This child must come now or you will lose them both.”

He panics, holding on to her.

“What can I do?”

“I need you to come here. Grab her leg and lift. You do not want to see. I suggest you turn away.”

The midwife is holding a knife and she begins to work as Ragnar holds his wife’s leg. She reaches two hands in and pulls out a blue baby, its body covered in blood and fluids, and what looks like a shround surrounding it. She quickly begins working, wiping down the infant and lowering her mouth…

It is the worst delivery. Ragnar closes his eyes to pray, fighting the fear that is now consuming him…

A cough. And soon…a tiny cry.

He opens his eyes to see the midwife has swaddled the baby in her arms. She carries him over to Ragnar and places it his arms.

“You have a boy. Now, I must attend your wife.”

He looks at the baby and back at Lagertha, lying still on the bed. Whatever relief he may have felt has disappeared and he begins to pace the room as the midwife tends to the earl. Her arms are bloodied, and so is Lagertha and the bed and the coverings. There is blood everywhere, more than he has ever seen even in battle and he recognizes the similarities between childbirth and war.

“The midwife reaches a hand inside Lagertha while another is pushing down on her stomach.

“What are you doing?” He whispers, the fear coming out in his voice as he holds his baby in his arms.

“Trying to remove the afterbirth. It is stuck,” she says.

The pushing continues and it looks painful. Ragnar is grateful that at least his wife is unconscious for this.

There is a squish sound that makes him close his eyes a moment.

“I’ve got it,” she says to herself, continuing to work.

“Fetch me fresh linens.”

He does as she says and brings them back, handing them to her. They are placed between Lagertha’s legs.

Finally, the midwife sets about cleaning her.

“Will she live?” He asks.

“Yes. She will live. But she will be in pain a very long time,” the woman says, not looking at him, but focused on her work.

Ragnar bounces his new baby gently, allowing himself to finally let go. He sobs, cradling the child in his arms. He almost lost a wife today. But still the gods have found favor in him. And for that, he is grateful.

Lagertha is stripped naked and Ammala comes into the room quietly.

“Can I be of assistance?” The older woman asks.

“Yes,” says the midwife. “I am in need of fresh linens. And could you please get others? I need to move her.

“I will move her,” Ragnar says as Ammala leaves.

“YOU need to take care of your son,” the midwife tells him. “Let the women work.”

And so he stands back as Ammala returns with three others. The five women fret over Lagertha. Fresh water is brought, a fresh nightgown as well. Her body is cleansed, the bed quickly stripped and new coverings placed on it. Lagertha ‘s bloodied gown is removed as well and the women bathe her gently, putting her in a fresh gown.

Afterward, most of the servants depart, leaving Ammala and the midwife.

Lagertha still has not awakened, but her chest rises and falls evenly. He comes over to her, settling down on the edge of the bed.

“My wife.”

Her eyes flutter, but no response. He shifts the child to his other arm, and uses his free one to touch her shoulder.

“Lagertha, wake up my love.”

A moan. Her eyes flicker open. She looks exhausted. Confused.

“Look,” he says moving in order to show her the baby in his arms. She is so drained she can only lift an arm to finger the blanket softly.

“What is it…?”

It has not occurred to Ragnar to look. He does so now, however, peeling back the blankets to check.

“Ragnhild was correct,” he says with a soft smile. “She has a little brother.”

His wife’s tiny smile warms his heart. “A brother, she says, before beginning to fade away again.

The midwife and Ammala look at one another.

“We will need a wet nurse, Ammala says quietly. She is too weak right now to feed him.”

Ragnar settles himself in a chair in the corner of the room, his newest son in his arms.


	15. Chapter 15

The word reaches Kattegat, and it comes to Bjorn. It takes him by surprise and he stumbles to the ground, quiet and reflective, absorbing the news. Life and death. It has always been the way of the gods. They have given, and they have taken away.

Shaken, he walks into the great hall to deliver the news to Aslaug.

“Ragnar has a new son,” he says. The queen closes her eyes and exhales, feeling the acute sting of betrayal and hurt. So Lagertha has produced yet another child. And a son, at that. It burns. As her own fertility fades, Lagertha’s blooms anew.  She had come here expecting love. Appreciation—she had wanted to give Ragnar what he desired and she did. And yet even that was not good enough. Still, he goes back. Back to the woman he initially left behind.

Aslaug wonders at this. Why does the sheildmaiden allow Ragnar into her bed, inside her body? How can she be so accommodating, so forgiving, when Aslaug herself feels nothing but bitterness and anger and resentment that continues to fester and grow.

 The rest of the boys are roughhousing around in the hall and she looks at them and smiles.

They are the one thing that give her peace, that make her feel that despite her circumstance there is some good that has come from being with Ragnar Lothbrok. Her children.

There is some good that has come of this, at least. She has her babies back. He did not keep them from her. It had taken a long while for her sons to begin to warm up to her again. But they have. And she is grateful for it. Aslaug had prided herself on being a better mother than Ragnar had been a father, but in these past few weeks, she has realized that they were both guilty of offenses against each other and their children. Still, she doubts her husband will ever admit it. And she knows he blames her for it all. Yet, here, his eldest child stands before her, and in his eyes, there is no blame.

Bjorn is, and always has been, an obedient son. For him only, she tempers herself. There is something more in his face. She can tell. He is troubled. Bjorn’s eyes, much like Ragnar’s, reveal everything. They are troubled.

 “What else does the message say?” She asks.

“They say that my mother is ill. The delivery did not go well.”

_The delivery did not go well._

Aslaug stills herself. “Does Ragnar require my presence?” She is hopeful. “I can go at once. Will you watch over your brothers? I will send word as soon as I can on the condition of your mother,” she tells him, beginning to move away to prepare. Perhaps…perhaps she can contribute. Be of aid, and he can see her worth…

“No, Aslaug. I just…” Bjorn looks chagrined for a moment. “Father…has requested Helga. I just thought you should know,” he says, leaving the great hall. She is alone once more.

Her eyes watch his retreating back before she moves off into the back rooms.

Not even when she could help does Ragnar request her presence.

Very well then. So be it.

Perhaps this is the death the gods have foretold to her. And if so, if she must lose something she valued, then it is only fair Ragnar does too. Aslaug refuses to be cowed. Nor will she support him in his grief. He has long stopped supporting her in hers.

.

.

 

The trip to Hedeby takes three days, and she is nervous about what she will find. It must be serious for Ragnar to call on her, especially in a matter concerning his first wife. But if Helga understands anything, it is that he loves Lagertha with everything he is, and has ever been, and if she is as ill as the message says, she knows better than most, that he will not be able to cope.

Hedeby looms large before her, heavily fortified and almost grand in scale. It is much better defended than Kattegat and the two cities are nearly the same size. But Hedeby is surrounded by lush hills and its buildings are largely of stone, not wood.

 Her wagon carries her into town and up to the great hall. When she enters, there are servants but no one else. She stops one.

“I am Helga, wife of Floki the boatbuilder,” she says. “Where is King Ragnar?”

The older woman looks at her. “You are a healer. Come, I will take you.”

 Helga follows her into the back where a door is opened. She steps into the private quarters of the hall, and sees Ragnar pacing, with a baby in his arms.

“Ragnar, what is wrong?” She asks approaching her friend carefully. He looks at her and the expression in his eyes is one she has only seen once before—the day Lagertha left him. She can tell immediately he has been crying.

 “She isn’t getting better,” he says in a low whisper, looking down at the baby in his arms. “I did not know what else to do.” She takes a look as well. “Is it a boy?” She asks, He nods. “What is his name?”

“Friedlief”.

“Can I hold him?”

Ragnar hands the baby over to his friend and moves off into Lagertha’s private rooms. Helga follows but stops when she sees Lagertha.

 The sheildmaiden is pale and sweating, and it is clear she is floating in and out of consciousness. Two women are at her side, tending to her. Helga has never seen Lagertha so weak, and it frightens her. The warrior woman is not a warrior in this moment. She is a dying earl. This Helga knows with surety. She closes her eyes, and when she does she has a vision of Lagertha with the wings of a swan—a Valkaryie called home.

It is an image so powerful she begins to cry immediately.

Ragnar doesn’t seem to notice, but one of the attendants does, and comes to her side.

“We will know tonight whether Earl Ingstad will live or die. If she makes it through the night, she will live.”

.

.

The wet nurse comes to feed Friedlief, and Helga and Ragnar take turns holding him. It is the longest night, and Ragnar clings to her as death hovers so near. Helga has fallen asleep in a separate room with Freidlief and Ragnhild, leaving Ragnar with his wife. He comes to sit on the bed.

“Lagertha…please don’t leave me,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her lips. He has never seen her wife so…weak and frail. It is the only way he can describe it. This is not how he had ever imagined she would meet death. He had always believed it would be on a battlefield, not in childbirth, and he is struck by another thought—that should she die, she may not meet him in Valhalla. It is something he cannot bear, and he lowers his head to her belly as he cries himself to sleep.

“Ragnar?”

He thinks at first the sound is in his mind.

“Ragnar?”

It is morning. He sits up, looking into Lagertha’s eyes. It has been nine days since Freidlief was born and in that time, she has fought off death.

“You are crying,” she says, and he smiles, a soft, sad smile.

“Warriors do not show their heart until the axe reveals it.” It gets him one in return as Lagertha begins to laugh, but winces, her hand going down to the place between her legs.

“It will take more than a bad delivery to kill me,” she says. There is finally color in her face, and Ragnar knows know that his wife is out of danger.

“Would you like to meet your son?” He asks, and at this, she smiles a radiant and beautiful smile. Everything about her lights up. “Yes. Yes! Where is he?”

Ragnar leaves to go into the room where Helga is. It is early, but she is awake cradling Friedlief who is fussing.

“He is hungry,” she tells him, offering the baby to his father. Ragnar lifts him. “His mother is awake,” he tells her.

“Can I be of assistance?” Helga looks hopeful and he nods. “Yes. But first I must let her know you are here.”

He walks back into Lagertha’s room with the baby and lays him down on her lap. As gently as he can, he helps Lagertha into a seated position. She winces and moans, but she does manage to make it.

“I hope my milk has not gone dry,” she says worriedly as Ragnar places Friedlief into her arms.

“We have had a wet nurse here,” he says. “Frieidlief is doing well.”

Friedlief.

It is the name they had chosen for their unborn son so very long ago, and she looks at her husband and smiles as he helps her lower her gown. Friedlief latches on quickly and begins to suckle.

Lagertha draws in a breath at the sting, but easily relaxes. Mother and son fall into a rhythm. Her milk is still fresh, and she can feed her baby. Ragnar perches on the end of the bed, rubbing her leg through the blankets.

“I have brought Helga,” he says quietly. “I thought she could help us.”

Lagertha looks up at him, surprise in her face. She thinks on it a moment, then nods, looking back down at her baby.

“Where is Ragnhild?”

“With Helga. I will go get them, if you wish.”

“Please,” Lagertha says, closing her eyes as her baby feeds. Ragnar disappears a moment and comes back with Ragnhild and Lagertha. Friedlief has finished eating and he comes to burp his son as Aslaug lifts Ragnhild to the bed. The little girl reaches for her mother and wraps her arms around Lagertha’s neck in a hug.

“I missed you too, my love” Lagertha says. 

Helga comes near.

“I am pleased you made it,” she says with a gentle smile. “When Ragnar called, I came as fast as I could. You two are dear to Floki and myself. Can I help you?”

 “I need to use the bathroom…” she says quietly so only Helga can hear.

“Ah. Ragnar, can you take Ragnhild a moment?” She says. He looks at the two women and nods. Once he has gone, She begins to help, moving Lagertha’s legs gently to the side of the bed.

 “It will be painful to stand,” she warns as she comes around to Lagertha’s side, holding one arm as Lagertha grips the bed with the other. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

It is like fire down below and the shield maiden nearly falls, but Helga is there to hold her. Each step feels more painful than the last until finally, she makes it to the chamber pot in the corner and can relief herself.

Even that burns terribly, and she has to fight back the tears, her lower lip trembling. By the time she makes it back to the bed, she is grateful it is over. Lagertha thinks she would rather feel the cut of the axe or the blade than what she is feeling now.

“What happened?” Helga asks helping Lagertha settle back down.

“I ripped, and the midwife had to cut me,” she says. “There was infection, and…” she does not voice the other thing. As she had drifted in and out of consciousness she had heard the midwife speaking about the potential for damage—the loss of feeling there. It had frightened her then and it does now.

“You will heal, you are strong,” Helga tells her, and Lagertha looks at her, grateful.

“Ragnar and I will take care of Friedlief and Ragnhild. I will help you when you need. For now, you must rest.”

She turns to leave and Lagertha puts a hand on her arm.

“Thank you, Helga.”

“You are very welcome.”

.

.

The recovery takes a long while, and Helga stays in Hedeby for some time. Lagertha begins to move around a bit more, and soon, under her own power. The pain is still there, but it is not as sharp, and has gone down to something tolerable, though after a lifetime of war, what is tolerable for Lagertha would reduce a lesser woman to tears. Still, she can move, and she can finally care for her infant son.

 Ragnar is helping her dress when Helga comes into the room.

“I am leaving for Kattegat today,” she tells them both. Ragnar goes to hug her. “I am grateful to you, he says.” It fills her with warmth as she stands back to smile at him before going to Lagertha. The warrior gets to her feet slowly a slight grimace across her pretty face. Residual pain. The two women embrace. “Thank you for everything,” she says.

Helga smiles, and departs, leaving Ragnar and Lagertha together.

Ragnar looks at his wife. It has been a difficult few years. But the waters are smoother now.

“We should send for the children,” he says. “We must announce the arrival of Friedlief. And I would like to have a feast honoring Ragnhild as well. She did not have such a presentation.”

Lagertha nods. “No, she did not. Both of these children are gifts. We should praise the gods.”


	16. Chapter 16

“I want it to be in Kattegat.”

She looks at her husband, eyes narrowed. “Ragnar…”

It is a warning, but he will not back down from this. “We will celebrate our children in Kattegat. And that is final.”

“For what purpose? What are you trying to accomplish, except to engender more of Aslaug’s ill will toward you?” She knows. He has already told her much of it.

“It is not something so petty, wife. Do you think that little of me?” He asks. “I want my children honored in Kattegat—I wish for the people to see who I hold in regard, because there will come a day when I am no longer here, and…”

It falls away, but she already knows. Lagertha stands, wincing slightly, and makes her way over to her husband. They are quietly working, building their empire, to leave in the hands of their children and when she must take over for Ragnar, there is to be as little resistance as possible.

“They are my people too,” she tells him. He nods. “And it is time to remind them of that.” For there are still only a few people who know of their re-marriage, but it must also be made explicitly clear which wife will inherit the throne. And it is the one who has fought for it, bled for it, and sacrificed for it. The one who it belongs to, rightfully.

Ragnar lies down in bed, pulling Lagertha close to him. Ragnhild is sleeping beside him, Friedlief nursing quietly on his mother’s breast. He has noticed the grimace of pain across her face—and though he knows she is better, coming so close to death has frightened him.

“Are you alright, my love?”

Their son is nearly four months old. He has been gone from Kattegat for more than a year. It is time to return.

“Some days are better than others,” she tells him, shifting her body to get into a more comfortable position.

The tearing has healed, and there is no longer pain when she must relieve herself, but there is still residual soreness and she remains…concerned about the other thing. They have not lay as husband and wife since the birth and the idea that she has lost something so precious to them. These things have torn them apart before. She knows she could not live should it happen again.

He is surprised when he sees tears, and Ragnar leans over to wipe them away. “What is wrong, wife?”

Friedlief continues to suckle greedily, letting out a yawn, his small mouth formed in a perfect “o” shape, before his little face once again finds his mother.

“It is nothing.”

“It is something if it is making you cry. You do not cry.”

She did not cry when she learned of his adultery. Nor did she cry the day she left him. She did not cry that night at Rollo’s house, when he asked her to stay nor did she cry when they made love for the first time in five years. The only time Lagertha cried, was when she delivered Ragnhild.

“I am worried we will be separated again,” she says finally, glancing down at their son, and their daughter, asleep beside her father.

“What do you mean? Why would that happen?” He is worried now, to hear her talk of this. Ragnar has no intention of losing Lagertha again—it would take the gods themselves to pry them apart. He is loyal to her—and though he has failed her in body and in action he has always been loyal to Lagertha in heart. That is not something that would ever change.

“The tearing,” she says. “It still hurts and…”

He too had heard the women talking as they worked to save her life but Lagertha living was of far greater concern and he has been so grateful that she still walks among the earth that it has not crossed his mind. That, and he knows, through experience, that new babies tend to…sap, to say the least, some of the desire for sex away. At least in the short term.

 Ragnar squeezes Lagertha’s shoulders, yet remains silent. In truth, he does not know what he would do. Sex is as natural for them as breathing and something they have always delighted in, with each other. She is his match. There have been other women, but those other women were not her, filling a physiological need, but leaving the emotional ones neglected. It is partly why he tried so hard and for so long and ultimately—committed an act of sheer desperation in order to bring her back home. Aslaug never satisfied him, not in the way it mattered, but…how to tell Lagertha this?

“My heart belongs to you only,” he says, hoping the words carry meaning.

“But does your body, too?”  There has only been one man she has loved, and it is him. And she has only had two other lovers, Earl Sigvard excluded. She is choosy about who she lets in.

At that, he sighs, eyes downcast. “I...do not know."

It feels like being stabbed in the heart. But, she supposes, perhaps it is better this way. Because now, she knows. Before, when they were young, she did not.

"And if I can no longer bear children?"

The second question. The reason they broke in the first place. Because she failed as a wife, and she could not give him what he desired. What he wanted.

Yet in this, he is more sure.

"What I have is more than enough," he tells Lagertha, gently stroking her cheek, seeing the wariness in her face. She shouldn't be worried.  He doesn't want her to be. And when he speaks to her again, his answer is far more certain.

"And my heart, and my body belong to you."

If this is what she demands, he thinks, so be it.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Nearly a year has passed, and in that time, Aslaug has only seen Ragnar twice. The first, upon the return from France and the second, when he brought her sons back to her.

They will never be as they were, she knows this. But perhaps they can at least make…amends. After all, she thinks to herself, looking out over the great hall, at the people gathered, this is her kingdom, and what is a king, with no queen?

Before her, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar laugh and play with other boys.

She smiles with pride.

Her children are her greatest treasure. And she wants nothing more than to leave them a legacy.

The doors to the hall open and her smile fades as Bjorn enters to a rousing cheer.

Ragnar’s eldest son.

She stands as he approaches and nods as he bows. Forever the obedient son, Bjorn is, she thinks, with a twinge of something akin to…jealously.

Irrational. Her position as wife is secured. Both by marriage and by blood and Lagertha and her son are no real threat.

“I have come to tell you that Helga has returned,” he says, speaking low. The seat beside her is empty, Ragnar’s chair, but she does not offer it, nor does Bjorn accept.

“Oh? And why has Helga not come to me, herself?”

“She believed you would be angry with her, given the circumstances,” he explains. “She also says that father will return soon.”

“And what of Lagertha?”

Bjorn’s words are measured.

“She is well. Ragnar has another son.”

Another son.

 Aslaug nods.

“Thank you, Bjorn. We will prepare for your father’s return,” she says with a false calm that masks an intense pang of hurt—surprising, she thinks, that she can still feel pain after all these years. But it is there, as fresh as it was the first time she learned that her bed was not the only one her husband was sharing.

The revelry goes on, the people oblivious to the exchange.

Aslaug settles back into her chair, observing. Wondering.

This…arrangement, she knows, is tenuous. Eventually, they will all be called upon to choose a side.

 And she wonders, as she peers out over the warriors of Kattegat, how many, if any of them, are loyal to her.

There is a movement by the door, quick, but she sees it, and gets up, smiling in greeting, while moving toward the front of the hall.

The figure moves off in the distance, and quickly, she follows it, until the barn looms in front of her. Aslaug enters, and the figure turns, removing the hood.

“Ubon!” The two women embrace, and one bows to the other.

“Princess, the others and I have noticed your distress,” she says. “Is there anything we can do to assist you?”

Ubon, one of her oldest and dearest friends. One of her sheildmaidens who made the journey with her from Gotaland to Kattegat, when she was still a young woman—a woman who felt strongly her destiny lay with the man whose child she carried.

It was all so long ago! She has not seen those women in years—only sparingly. But now, Ubon stands before her and she feels, for the first time, that she is not alone. That there is a way…but she also knows she must be careful. She will need all the help she can get.

“Ubon,” Aslaug says, her voice low.

“You are correct. But I must know…to whom do you pledge fealty?”

Ubon bows in deference.

“You are the true queen of Kattegat,” she says.

.

.

“Father! Father!”

Ragnar’s arrival is greeted by four young, smiling faces, and as he walks into the great hall, he is taken down to the ground by his sons—all pouncing at once.

He kisses them, and squeezes them tight, relishing the feel of his children in his arms. There is no greater joy, he thinks, than this.

Aslaug walks up slowly to them, shaking her head, but genuinely pleased, as she watches her children toussel with their father.

 Even Ivar is fully engaged, pulling himself with his arms and managing to wrap his body around one of Ragnar’s legs.

“I am pleased to see you, husband.”

He looks up to see Aslaug standing there, arms crossed, leaning against a post.

Ragnar gets to his feet and approaches, but does not touch her.

“Aslaug.”

It is tense. The last time they were together, he had told her in specific terms what their arrangement was, and was not. And she is under no illusion that it has changed. What is different now, is his attitude. But so is hers. It seems she is not the only one that has reached a resolution.

“Father! Come play with us! Please?” Sigurd asks, pulling at his tunic.

“In a moment. I need to speak with your mother,” he tells the boys, not missing the look that passes between Ubbe and Hvitserk. Wise beyond their years, he thinks, chagrined. The sins of the father and the mother affecting all their children.

“We will tell Bjorn that you are here,” Ubbe says, seriously.  The boys depart, leaving Aslaug and Ragnar alone, for the moment.

“You are well, Ragnar.”

“As are you, Aslaug.”

“Hmm.” She laughs a bit at it. They are like strangers. But perhaps they’ve always been. Just two people in a situation of convenience. Mutual benefit. But now the relationship has become unfair. And they are no longer equal partners.

“I take it your newest son is well?”

“He is.”

“As is your daughter?”

“She is.”

“And you have returned…for what? I believed you would be occupied with your other family to be concerned with this one.”

She cannot help herself. It comes out far more biting than she intended, and Ragnar’s eyes flash with warning. But he does not rise to it.

“Lagertha will be here in a few weeks’ time,” he tells her, measuredly. “We will have a feast. I wish to return to England—there is business to settle there. And I wish to formally present my newest children. To honor them as we have honored all of our children,” he says.

Aslaug bristles, but she forces herself into a measure of calm.

“Very well.”

It is all she says as she turns toward their rooms.

“Are you coming?”

“No. I will be in my cabin, until Lagertha arrives,” he tells her. “But I will remain here for the time being. I wish to see my sons.”

“It is all the same to me.”

She goes, and, in the privacy of their chambers, begins to ponder her next moves. There is much at stake, and the outcome, she knows, will determine the fate of their children as well. She cannot afford to be wrong. The gods have been silent lately, and that has made her weary. But she knows they have not abandoned her.

So Aslaug waits for the signs of how and when she should proceed. Thanks to her sheildmaidens, she knows that there are some in Kattegat who support her, but they alone will not be enough. She needs an ally. A powerful one. One who is not intimidated by the name Ragnar Lothbrok.

She smiles, already having him in mind.

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

Ragnar finds Bjorn, sitting by the beach, staring out into the sea.

For a moment, he sees a shadow of himself, and the memory pains him. Even now, the loss is still acute—his beloved daughter, Gyda. Ragnar wonders had he not asked the gods more sons, would his daughter still be with him now. They have always demanded much—and they have taken and given in equal measure.

“I have not seen you since my return,” he says, coming to sit next to Bjorn.

“Perhaps I did not wish to be seen, father,” Bjorn tells him, still staring out at the sea. His eyes are dark, clouded, and his features melancholy. Ragnar resists the desire to pull him into his arms. Bjorn is not a child anymore—he is a man. A man, his father knows, has had to deal with circumstances and responsibilities far beyond his years. But he is pleased to see Bjorn has managed well. And he knows his son will become a great man, one day.

Sorrow and sacrifice are just a part of the journey.

“What troubles you, my son?” He asks, finally.

Bjorn takes a fist full of sand, and lets it filter through his fingers. The wind carries it away. There is silence between them a long while, but he knows Bjorn has heard him. So he waits until his son speaks.

“For the past year you have been gone from this place,” he starts. “And I see you, and mother, and Ragnhild and Friedlief and I remember…” he begins to choke up, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and taking a shaky breath…

“I remember Gyda,” he says. “And I remember myself. And I remember you and mother, and our farm…and I wish…”

It trails off, and he resumes staring at the ocean.

“I had hoped Porunn and I…that we could create the family I lost,” he says quietly. “After Porunn left, I couldn’t bear to look at Siggy. She looked so much like her mother. And when she drowned I…felt…I felt as if I lost Porunn all over again.

“Tell me, father…how am I supposed to live with such loss? My sister, my wife, my daughter…” At this, Bjorn looks at him with tears that have not yet fallen.

It is all he can do now, to reach out, and pull Bjorn close to his chest, holding him tightly as he starts to cry.

“I am tired, Father. I miss them,” Bjorn sobs. “Am I destined to be miserable?”

Ragnar’s heart breaks. But he knows what he cannot say. And so he chooses his words carefully.

“Not all children are destined for this life, Bjorn,” he says, softly, stroking the back of his son’s head gently. “The gods give and take with equal measure,” conviction, because Ragnar knows it to be true. “But I promise you, my son. Your story is not yet fully written, and I believe you will be happy, and you will love, and you will have a family of your own making again. Just as you have your family—your mother, and sister and brother, now. We will never leave you.”

On this, he is certain. He does not know what compels him to the promise, but he feels, in his bones, in his heart—that these are the right words to say.

Ragnar cannot tell Bjorn that Siggy’s death was no accident. He cannot have his son seek vengeance against the mother of his brothers. But he also knows the circumstances and the result of Siggy’s death have not yet played out. And while he keeps the truth from Bjorn…he is also keeping the truth from Lagertha as well. For he knows his wife will never be forgiving of such a matter.

And while he does not like Aslaug, she is still the mother of his sons.

Yet even as Ragnar thinks this…he knows he is only delaying the inevitable. Something will eventually have to yield. He learned from Lagertha long ago that a woman’s anger runs hotter than any man’s. She herself had told him this. But only now is it coming into focus.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot off the presses, and I apologize for all typos. To those still reading, my apologies! I've got way too many irons in the fire and the stories keep coming faster than I can write them.

The hall of Vestfold is jovial as the warriors drink and feast. At the head of the table, King Harold watches it all in merriment, his eyes twinkling, or more honestly, glassy from the ale he drinks. At his left, his brother, Halfdan, presently attempting to woo one of the young sheildmaidens.

She stands abruptly and yells, tossing her cup of ale in Halfdan’s face, before storming out. The hall falls silent a moment, watching to see what he will do.

What he does is nothing. Simply smiles, and shrugs, and raises his own horn in the air! “No luck with women!” He declares, to a rousing cheer, before getting up and leaving the table, following in the woman’s wake. Harold just shakes his head. It is not that they have had… difficulty, per-say, but both know and understand what they are each looking for. And it is not a passive woman. No. The brothers want a woman with fire, with desire, a woman who can rule by them and with them, not under them, for all their talk and bluster. Harold believed he’d found that woman, but alas, it has not come to be. Yet. But he is a patient man. And he knows, when he becomes king of all of this great world, she will see him for who he is, and so he waits. For her, and her alone.

The doors to the hall open, letting in a blast of cold, spring air. It carries with it the remnants of winter’s bitterness, but without the bite, and the fires that light the building billow and flicker, but do not go out.

 Still, the sudden jolt causes the group to look up at the visitor, clad in dark robes, but it is just a momentary disruption.  When the doors shut again, they resume their drinking. Except one.

 Harold watches the figure over the tilt of his cup.

 There are many layers, but under them all, he can tell it is a woman.

Sure enough, the figure comes to stand next to him and rolls back the hood, revealing, a mature, yet regal woman, with black hair, streaked with gray. And green eyes, the corners which show the very beginnings of wrinkles. Her face is neutral, yet hard and he knows immediately, by her bearing alone, this is no ordinary woman.

 He stands, using his full height to display the power dynamic between them. She looks up, but shows no sign of intimidation.

“Shield-maiden?” He asks.

“Yes, King Harold.” The voice is lower, deeper and slightly gravely. An old warrior. He respects those. There are very few of them.

“Come,” he says, walking away from the feast and toward his own private rooms. Here, they can speak freely and openly for he senses, this is no ordinary call.

“In three days’ time, you will be receiving an invitation,” the woman says, electing to remain standing even as he pulls a chair for her. “Oh? Of What sort?” He asks, taking the seat for himself, then.

“The birth of King Ragnar’s newest children,” the sheildmaidens says. “And I do know he wishes to return to England.”

“The birth of new life is to be celebrated,” Harold tells her, speaking slowly. “It replenishes the warriors we have lost. I am pleased for him.” But pleased is an even slower drawl, and Harold cannot help but feel a spark of envy. He has no heirs of his own, and yet King Ragnar has many. Ragnar’s kingdom remains the key to the crown of Norway, and yet Harold sometimes wonders if the gods themselves don’t protect Ragnar. Still, he is a noble king, a good king, and as one himself, Harold must acknowledge the work Ragnar has done in paving the way west for their people. The discovery of new worlds, land, and opportunity has made all their lands wealthy beyond their dreams. But he craves glory for himself.

“Why have you come to me, old warrior? When the same message will be arriving in three days’ time? I may not look it,” he tells her, “but I see just as clearly as you do.”

“I know you are ambitious, King Harold. And the person who sent me knows this as well. We are offering you something that you would never be able to gain on your own.”

“And what his that,” he asks, growing ever more curious, despite himself.

“We offer you the crown of Denmark,” she says. “And the kingdom of Kattegat.”

It takes his breath away, and he leans in, eyes shining, but not from drink. He is perfectly sober in the moment.

“Who sent you?” He asks.

The old woman answers by opening her cloak, revealing the make of her armor. He knows that armor from stories.

“Tell Queen Aslaug,” he says, “I look forward to meeting her at a place of her choosing, when we arrive in Kattegat.”

She nods, at departs, leaving Harold to consider this twist in fortune. Without great risk, there can be no great reward. But he will not go blindly.

.

.

Lagertha stands at the edge of the beach, the water lapping at her toes. It is cold, the way she remembers. The wind has picked up, whipping her hair about her face and she looks out over the restless waters, and smiles, inhaling the salt and brine of the ocean.

Her party has stopped for the night, and when she realized where they were, she knew she had to go and see for herself, what, if anything, has remained.

Nearly twenty five years ago, she and her husband had carved out a life for themselves in this very place. The hills that surrounded their small farm provided them with meat, the waters, fish. The grove and brush nearby allowed for the grazing of their animals and as their farm grew, so did their family. First Bjorn, then Gyda. On these very sands, late at night they had lain, looking up at the stars and dreaming, wondering what existed beyond this world. Ragnar would fill her mind with tales, mystical voyages, and places, repeating the stories of the old wanderers he’d heard during trips to the market in Kattegat. How young they had been! There was love, here. Love that still carries in the air, she feels, as the wind caresses her cheeks.

Behind her, charred and broken, the home Ragnar had built for his family, by hand. Yet still, it stands, defiant.

 _I love you so much I would feed you the sky_ ,  her husband said once, late one night, as they lay on the floor of their home, momentarily spent from lovemaking, listening to the breathing of their children as they slept nearby. The fire still burned in their house, and the furs under them were soft, warm. Secure. At the time, she had believed it would last forever.

But the world does not stop for anyone.

“Mother…cold,” Ragnhild says, tugging on Lagertha’s skirts. In her arms, Freidlief sleeps, dreaming baby dreams. She smiles, and shifts him gently, freeing a hand to extend to her daughter. “Then let us get you warm,” she tells her. “Are you excited to see your father, tomorrow?”

The girl bounces on her feet, and lets out a happy squeal. Earl Ingstad laughs quietly as she makes her way back to camp. Tomorrow, they will arrive in Kattegat.

.

.

“Father, are you…nervous?” Bjorn whispers with a smirk, leaning in and speaking low in Ragnar’s ear. They are standing next to one another, in front of the doors to the great hall, along with Floki and Helga, Aslaug, and the young boys.

“Don’t be foolish, boy,” Ragnar says quickly eyes focused ahead, into the distance. But he speaks a little too fast. And Bjorn smirks to himself. His parents are as transparent as ice on a lake. They’ve never been able to hide their feelings for each other, and it is the worst-kept secret in all of Kattegat. Word arrived that morning that Earl Ingstad and her party were approaching, and as word spread through Kattegat, the excitement had quickly followed. No one is a stranger here, and the last time the EARL WAS in the city for any length of time was to display Ragnhild. Yet, the people know.

Many have already started lining the streets, talking excitedly among themselves. Lagertha is a daughter of Kattegat, a powerful warrior, a respected earl in her own right—one who has fallen, and risen, fallen again and yet come back from the ashes, stronger. Some say she is a descendant of Freya’s warrior self. The earthy manifestation of the Valkyries who come to call the great warriors home. But to the people of Kattegat, she is a native daughter. And they are there to greet her as she comes home.

The horns sound in the distance, and Ragnar stands a little straighter, pulling down his coat, and rolling his shoulders. Aslaug, standing feet away, cuts her eyes at him and tries to keep her own face neutral. It is hard, as she watches the crowds grow. There were none to greet her when she came. Just inquisitive stares, as the townsfolk wondered who the stranger was that had come upon their shores, and many believed, destroyed the earl’s family, whom they all held in high regard. She was the witch—some had spoken when they believed she couldn’t hear. The temptress the deceiver, the instigator. And even now, there are eyes that come upon her, and dart away just as quickly. Aslaug shifts, bringing her sons in closer to her, and despite some reluctance, they stand or in Ivar’s case, sit politely at her feet as they wait.

The men come first, greeted with cheers from the crowd, but it is the line of shield maiden’s tall and statuesque, that generate the gasps. Each woman, clad in fitted armor—an army of Lagertha’s it seems, carrying the blue shields of Hedeby. They are proud women, unlike many Kattegat has seen before and the sheildmaidens know this. They will make no apologies for who and what they are, trained by the best of them herself, and the crowd backs away as finally, as if emerging from a mirage, the Earl herself strides up.

Ragnar has watched it all, impressed.

If anything, his wife does know how to make an entrance. Her warriors were impressive, the sheildmaidens more so, but they all fall to the side as Earl Ingstad comes forward, resplendent in a blue gown, white furs adorning her neck, and her cloak a deep, rich purple hue. Her hair is as spun gold about her head, a crown though she does not wear one. She does not need it. A queen, Ragnar thinks, eyes on her only. The flare of possessiveness that follows nearly makes him growl with desire but he manages to stifle that, as she strides up to him, Ragnhild beside her, dressed similarly.

“King Ragnar,” she greets formally, lowering her head just slightly in acknowledgement of his position. He returns her gesture.

“Queen…Aslaug,” Lagertha says, speaking slowly, firmly, each syllable lingering for a moment. She lowers her head in greeting as well. A show of respect. But Aslaug does not return the gesture. Ragnar glances at her as she stares at Lagertha, and looks down at what the earl is holding in her arms.

Carefully, Lagertha moves her cloak and pulls back a corner of the carefully swaddled figure she is holding. Floki looks over, and Bjorn does too.

Inside, a small mouth opens into a yawn, and big eyes slowly blink open.

Ragnar reaches out and, turning away from Aslaug, Lagertha hands the baby to his father and comes to stand next to him. The king extends a hand down to his daughter and small fingers wrap around his far larger ones.

“Tomorrow,” he talks, above the din of the crowd gathered. “We feast! To Kattegat!”

“To Kattegat!” They cheer. Horns sound, and a few men begin to play lute. The family retreats to the inside of the great hall.

When the doors close, the young boys break away from their mother and rush to Lagertha’s skirts, happy to see her. She bends, granting hugs to all, and saving an especially tight one for Ivar, who smiles at her.

Aslaug observes standing slightly apart. “Come,” she tells her children, ushering them back to her and steering them away as Floki and Helga come in for hugs.

“You are a vision from the gods,” he proclaims standing back to admire Lagertha before hugging her again. “Ragnar, you are unfit for such gifts!” The king laughs as Helga hugs Lagertha and the two exchange kisses on the cheeks.

“Mother,” Bjorn steps forward, somewhat formally and Lagertha has to look up to see all of him.

“Oh!” She exclaims grabbing him by the arms and pulling him down and into her chest. He winces, having forgotten exactly how strong his mother is. Even now, as she squeezes, he finds himself grinning, enjoying the smell of her hair, like a warm day. It is a comforting scent, one she has carried with her always and he finds himself yearning, wishing for just a moment—that he was a child again, and that his family were back in their little home by the sea. But this, he thinks as Lagertha ruffles his hair and he laughs and takes a peek at his newest baby brother, is just as good.

“Me! Me!”

Ragnhild looks up at them all, raising her arms, and Bjorn bends and picks her up too, placing the little girl on his hip.

“Hello my lovely sister,” he greets her, with a rub to the nose.  And walks over to Ragnar to see who his father is holding. “What is this?” He asks jestfully, looking down and pointing at the baby.

Bra-fur!” Ragnhild tells him, smiling broadly and clapping her hands. Bjorn grins.

“Well then who am I?”

At that, the little girl frowns a bit, and cocks her head. Then, she grins again.

“Bra-fur too!” Little arms wrap around his neck in a squeeze, and he glances at Ragnar and Lagertha, gasping.

They laugh.

“Strong grip,” the king says as Freidlief wiggles in his arms one little hand somehow managing to get free and grab his beard. He yelps, making them all laugh as the group settles down---Ragnar, Lagertha, Floki and Helga on his lap. Ragnhild in Bjorn’s. Freidlief starts to whimper a bit, and Ragnar knows what time it is. Feeding time. He gives the baby to Lagertha.

“Where did Aslaug go?” She asks, looking up around them.

Ragnar gets up and goes to the back rooms, finding her in their bed chamber and the boys sitting around, looking sad.

“Come, children,” he says. They stand quickly and Ivar scoots all happy to be escaping their solitude.

“Aslaug, what is the meaning of this?” Ragnar asks her, as she studies him, from her seated position on the bed. “First, you disrespect Lagertha, and then, you pull our sons away from their siblings.”

“I figured you would prefer the time to yourself,” she says. But there is insincerity there. He feels the familiar stirrings of argument. But won’t do it. The time for quarreling is past. “Very well.” He tells her. “But do not isolate the children. It is unfair to them, and none of them have done anything wrong.”

He leaves.

Aslaug does not. She hears the sound of laughter and the high-pitched shrieks of the children as they play. But she will not be a part of it. Her path is now clear, and as the group is occupied in the great hall, Aslaug slips on a cloak and leaves through a back door, unseen, her feet carrying her to a small house away from the main village. She knocks, and the door opens to her.

“My queen,” Ubon greets her and welcomes her inside.

 There, she sees the rest. Four of her former sheildmaidens, the women who protected her when she was just a young maiden. But there are others too—some, she recognizes, others she doesn’t. She looks at Ubon.

“Trustworthy, all.” The older woman tells her, bowing. The rest do too.

“And there are others, my queen,” a tall, dark man says, stepping forward.

“And what of our ally?” Aslaug asks, nodding at him, but addressing Ubon.

“Tomorrow,” the woman says. “I will arrange the meeting during the feast. There will be many people. And many distractions.”

Distraction.

Aslaug smiles.


	20. Chapter 20

It is a feast larger and grander in scale than any thrown before. The revelry spills out of the great hall, into the city itself. Ragnar has spared no expense for his family, and there are fire breathers, and magicians to amuse the town’s children. The ale pours liberally and the music becomes louder and more intense as the hours draw later. One of the two thrones is empty, as Aslaug looks out over the crowd, watching with disinterest, biding her time. Ragnar has refused to sit beside her, electing to stay near Lagertha. So be it.

They are smiling and laughing with one another, and Aslaug’s sharp green eyes catch every moment. The way Ragnar brushes against Lagertha, sliding a hand down her waist, and the way she turns to face him, a slender hand on his cheek.

Disgusting.

 It is blatantly disrespectful, and yet she feels nearly numb to it all now. It will soon be over, anyway.

“A pity for a queen to sit alone on her throne,” a deep, masculine voice whispers in her ear. She barely turns, knowing exactly who has slipped in the chair Ragnar has abandoned.

“King Harold, I am pleased you join us this evening.”

“I am pleased as well, Queen Aslaug,” he says, gazing out over the crowd and raising his own cup of ale at a few of his warriors in the back. The noise is loud, and to anyone watching, it appears as if the two are barely even speaking to one another. Aslaug does not look at Harold, nor he at her. She raises a cup to her own lips and takes a sip of wine.

“Are you looking forward to fighting next to my husband in England?” She asks.

“All great warriors are honored to fight alongside other great warriors,” Harold tells her, drinking from his own cup. He exhales, relishing the taste.

“Not every warrior needs to go to England,” he tells her. “A king would be a fool for not leaving a few behind to guard for his kingdom. Yet, not all do this. And they fail to leave behind strong men who can guard the homes. And what happens to homes left un-guarded?” He ventures.

In her cup, Aslaug smiles, eyes scanning the room, appearing completely disengaged.

“It has happened before,” she says. “Who is to say it cannot happen again?”

The last time it did, Ragnar nearly lost everything to a rival Jarl. And he would have, had Lagertha not defied hers to save him.

Harold raises his cup to her. “skol.”

“Skol.”

He slips off and away, leaving the Queen alone.

Ragnar is whispering into her ear and Lagertha looks up into his face, and smiles. But something draws her attention and her eyes dart to the place where Aslaug sits. She catches King Harold sitting beside her. The two are looking out over the hall, cups raised to their lips and yet…

It is intuition.

“Husband,” she whispers against his lips.

“Hmmm?”

“There is someone in your chair.”

He turns their bodies together, just slightly, glancing up then back down, appearing still fully focused on Lagertha and places his mouth on her neck.

“Harold wants to be king of all of Norway,” he says lightly against her skin. But it is communicated in only the way he knows Lagertha understands.

Later, once the children are asleep and Ragnar and Lagertha have retreated to his cabin, does she speak aloud what she is feeling.

 “We should take precautions. But, it could very well be nothing,” Lagertha says. “For Harold and Halfdan are going with you to England, as are my warriors.”

“And Jarl Borg is long dead,” Ragnar says, reminding them both of the last attempt at usurping Kattegat. The punishment was done in terrifyingly bloody fashion.

He watches Lagertha, seeing the furrow of her brow, the tilt of her chin. It is the way she looks when she is strategizing.

“What do you propose, my wife?” He asks, running a hand up her thigh.

“I propose,” she says, reaching for his tunic and sliding it up and off of him, “a slight change of plans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those still reading. This story is 95 percent complete, but I'm still working out how to bring it all in for a landing. The gear is down, but there are headwinds and turbulence.


	21. Chapter 21

.

**Chapter 21**

The horns sound, announcing the impending departure. One hundred ships. Between 20 and 40 warriors each. It is a large contingent. Women and children gather on the shore to see their families off, waving and offering prayers. The flags attached to the masts of each boat has a color. Blue for Hedeby. Yellow, for Vestfold, and the dreaded, raven black banner of Kattegat.

From her place on her boat, Lagertha stands, looking back out at the city.

The place she and Ragnar grew up. Forged through battle. Fortified by war. Their home.

Another horn blows and the ships begin to pull out of the harbor, slowly rowed out into the ocean.

They did not speak that morning. They did not have to. She knows the plan. Not all of these ships will make it to England.

The crew row and Kattegat begins to grow fainter the further they go. Slowly, the ships start to spread apart, carried by currents, yet all headed in a general direction.

Or not.

Lagertha nods at one of her commanders. “A change,” she says. “We are going elsewhere.” She gives the word, and the woman dives into the ocean, swimming to the nearest ship. This repeats, as Lagertha’s boat stops and stays still. Her certainly only grows, as she sees the first part of her plan coming to fruition. Most of the other boats are blue banners. However, there are four black ones that break off from the larger group, and make their way over as well. It happens slowly, quietly, boat-by-boat, so as to not arise suspicion. And by nightfall, when torches are lit and she stands on a platform to get a higher vantage point, the full count makes itself known. Thirteen ships. Lagertha estimates nearly 400 warriors.

Hers is the lead boat, and she directs the crew to begin to row. Toward Hedeby.

Ragnar and the others continue to make their way to England.

.

.

Aslaug prepares her children.

“Where are we going, mother?” It is Ubbe, her eldest, wise beyond years and he looks at her with Ragnar’s eyes, questioning and suspicious.

“We are taking a trip,” she tells him. “To my home.”

“Where is your home?”

“Gotaland,” she says.

“Who will watch over Kattegat?” Sigurd questions.

There are four small faces eyeing her, three with doubt.

“I am your mother,” she says firmly. “You will obey me, just as you do your father.”

There are no more questions.

Reluctantly, the boys prepare to leave. She watches as they gather their things. Only Ivar comes to her in his chair, and lays his head against her thigh. She pets his hair affectionately. It is still good that at least one of her children still need her. It is good that someone does.

Aslaug is willing to risk everything. Even her life. She is not willing to risk her children. Her legacy depends on them. And as much as Ragnar is loathe to admit it, she is a part of his, as well.

.

.

Lagertha’s lookouts report back to her in the hills outside of Kattegat. She has stationed her warriors there.

“What is it, Solveig?”

 The young women comes running up breathless, and bows quickly, before reporting.

“Earl Ingstad, the queen is moving.”

“The King’s sons are on the move. They are being carried out of Kattegat as we speak.”

“Where are they going?”

“I do not know. But they are leaving the town.”

She considers it.

“And what of Queen Aslaug?”

“She is staying.”

Staying. The children leaving. Aslaug would never leave her children. As a mother, it is a sentiment Lagertha knows. There is only one thing that can part mother from child. And that is danger. It feels as if her instincts are correct.

“We will wait,” she tells Solveig. “Report anything and everything. Large groups of people approaching. An increase in activity. Let me know.”

“Yes, my Earl.”

Solveig goes, and Lagertha goes back to her tent, to study the table. On it, a crude rendering of Kattegat made of materials nearby—sticks and leaves, rocks and dirt. Each representative of a point.

Lagertha is restless. But she feels, in her bones, that something will happen. It is just a matter of waiting to see.

Inside her house, Aslaug lays in bed eyes closed, and waits to see if Harold will uphold his end of the bargain. She prays to her mother and her father, for salvation to come soon.


	22. Chapter 22

Solveig does as her Earl has directed. She continues to watch.

She watches from streets of Kattegat, blending in among the merchants and the farmers. She watches from shore, fishing and working the land.

And she watches from within the Great Hall, during the weekly feast. She is present, and still unnoticed. A maid-servant within the household. Here, she listens.

“The queen is unhappy,” the women talk amongst themselves.

“The king has abandoned her.”

“She deserved to be abandoned,” an older woman tells them all. “The same way she got her husband is the same way she loses him. It is her fault.”

The young one’s protest. The house is divided. But the older woman is insistent.

“This was never her place. Never her land. She is the usurper. Earl Lagertha is the rightful queen.”

“How so?”

And so the old woman tells them the history.

“One day,” she says, “she came here, claiming to carry King Ragnar’s son.” The servants listen with rapt attention as the elder speaks.

“Ragnar wanted two wives. He let his pride blind him. He believed Lagertha would accept this. He believed she loved him. And she did. Yet Lagertha loved herself more. And so she carved for herself another way.”

Solveig remains silent the whole while, while inwardly, glowing with pride that she is of Lagertha’s legacy. It takes a woman to raise a man. It takes a woman to raise a kingdom. Lagertha has done both.

.

.

Solveig senses something different weeks later. There is a low, thin mist from the ocean that has lingered in Kattegat days now, but today, it has grown thicker. The air, cooler.

She is not the only one who senses it.

The townspeople watch each other warily, a sense of foreboding all around.

There is not one thing, but many that attribute to the sense of unease. It feels as if the gods have something in the works.

Always the gods working.

Inside the great hall, a fire is lit for warmth.

Aslaug sits on her chair, absently twisting her chair as a servant hands her a warm cup of tea.

“Thank you.”

“My queen.” The servant goes.

The cup remains in Aslaug’s hands. It is quiet in the hall. Quiet outside as well.

She closes her eyes, and inhales, the steam rising from the liquid.

In the darkness of her mind, a vision comes—and she sees them. The men come from the water in the night, rising slowly through the fog. They come, by scores, and when she opens her eyes, she smiles, and finally, takes a warm sip.

For the first time, her spirit is still.

It will happen. Aslaug knows Harold has kept his word. ~~~~

~~**.** ~~

~~**.** ~~

They come ashore in darkness. One boat at a time. Each follows the signs, marks on the trees, gauges in the Earth—to the unassuming eye it would appear small animals made the paths—and it is through this way Ragnar, Bjorn and King Herald assemble their warriors.

The Saxons remain blind to them. Ragnar orders no strikes on the nearby villagers. Not yet. Not until they are ready. Not until he has seen for himself the damage Ecbert has done.

They go quietly.

And they remain quiet as the remnants of the village come into view. It is overgrown now, thatched roofs hollow, open to the sky, the few buildings that remain are collapsed. There are only fragments. Pieces. No people. No bodies. All of it is gone.

Ragnar observes wordlessly, arms crossed.

Beside him, Bjorn mirrors his father’s posture.

It is done.

Dreams turned to Ash. Friends taken too soon.  All that work. All that blood. The air is heavy.

.

.

Harold looks around the camp warily.

He knows something is amiss. He can count. There are two contingents missing.

Earl Lagertha’s fleet departed Kattegat, yet they are not here.

“What do you think, brother?” Halfdan sits next to him, sharpening his axe. Their voices are low. Across the camp, King Ragnar sits alongside his son. Harold glances to them right as Ragnar looks up. The two men lock eyes, and Halfdan turns to see what his brother is looking at.

Ragnar grins at him—all teeth. Predatory. Knowing. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, dark and menacing.

It is then Harold begins to worry.

The other contingent that is missing, is his.

.

.

It is quiet in Kattegat. Too quiet.

The strong, healthy and young have left for England. Those who remain are either too old, too lame, or too young to fight. It is mostly women and children.

New arrivals are noticed.

They slip through the gates, two by two attempting to blend. Walking the market, mingling in the taverns, in the day and in the night.

The townspeople are wary.

All the warriors should be gone. Yet these are here. And strangers, all.

The mood in Kattegat shifts.

No one has seen the queen. The great hall is darkened, foreboding. A silent warning.

Something in the air has changed.

.

Solveig makes her way through the darkened streets, out to the outskirts of town, through the woods and the road, making sure to stay off to the side, in the high grasses to ensure she is not seen.

She has overheard the plan, and she goes as fast and as far as she can to deliver the message. Her heart is pounding, hands are sweaty and mouth dry—her feet ache, legs feel almost numb, but she must do this.

Mid-way down the path, a figure reveals itself and grabs her, one hand wrapping around her mouth so she cannot scream. Solveig is dragged off into the darkness.

“Solveig.”

The cloth is pulled down from her face, and her eyes adjust to the candlight in the makeshift tent. Before her, a crown of golden hair, and the soft, yet stern face of Earl Ingstad.

“Tomorrow,” she breathes quickly, the panic beginning to ebb. “It is to happen tomorrow.”

The earl nods, standing from her position facing Solveig.

“Very well. You may go.”

She does.

The hour is late when she reaches the great hall, and she tries to slip in silently, hoping her disappearance has not been noticed.

But immediately, as she tries to enter through a side door, she is confronted by the Queen herself—beside her, a tall woman, dark hair streaked with gray, wearing warriors clothes.

“Solveig,” Queen Aslaug says, her voice low, yet chilled, head tilted to the side as she studies Solveig intently, her green eyes narrowing as that of snake.

“Where have you been?”

 


End file.
